


The Edge Of War's End

by EnemyOfInnocence



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Children, Debauchery, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Fan theory experiment, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love Letters, Marriage, Next Generation, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, season 8 continuation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 14:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnemyOfInnocence/pseuds/EnemyOfInnocence
Summary: Sansa is alone in Winterfell, so Bran orders Tyrion north for diplomatic purposes...not to fall in love with a queen. [Post Season 8]





	1. One

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** I have no idea why I'm writing this. I've never read the books, and I've skipped through parts of the show. However, I have a great and terrible love for Sansa/Tyrion. They're the best characters in the universe as far as I'm concerned. Sorry if I get a few details off. Tell me I'm wrong, and I will revise to accommodate the canon where possible.

This begins a few months after the show's end, so Jaime is, unfortunately, still dead (no matter how wasteful of an ending his character had).

* * *

_ **Chapter** _ _ ** 1** _ _ **:** _

_Tyrion_

* * *

Business as usual. What a sorry way to end his days.

Not that he was complaining.

As honorable as he'd thought he could be the last night he'd freed his brother, Tyrion would always prefer living. Once again subjected to the weight of guiding a ruler, being hand to someone like the three-eyed raven made the job tolerable.

Barely.

The job would never be easy, but at least it had saved his life.

The Last War had somehow overshadowed The Great War in the scale of horror. Occasionally, Tyrion thought it had simply been a nightmare. The rest of the time, he woke up in thick layers of sweat. Reliving that long night would ensure he would never rest again. What good was rest without someone to share a bed with?

Another side effect of the war was a lack of passion.

His love for the Dragon Queen had always been inevitable. Beauty, an unyielding fire burning at her eyes, and a silver tongue was the perfect package for a depraved imp like him. This love had ruined him. He'd betrayed her at the last hour. Everything she'd ever desired he'd helped deliver. No matter the cost—even his own reason and sanity—was a price he could afford.

Daenerys' greatest mercy was loving Jon Snow instead of him in return. Tyrion would not have survived her if he'd known her. Because he was a fool in love. Hells, a fool in everything.

So he drank. Drinking until just before he got totally pissed at night and nursing the bitter hangover the following morning had become a part of his business as usual.

What a waste of life he was now.

Tyrion once was fun. He'd slipped between the sheets of many whores before. There was a new brothel building. He'd visited for only a night. And how humiliating! He was mostly positive that one paid a whore to fuck. Not to sob to while drunk.

So, maybe business was not _so_ usual now.

A knock pulled him from his cynical reverie. "Enter," he called from his desk. A boy emerged from the shadows of the halls beyond the threshold. Tyrion tensed. "I told you I'd throw things at you if you were to deliver anything else!" The sun had set hours ago. Long nights were to be expected as the Hand, but for a week straight?

The boy cringed, using the door as his shield. "S-sorry, Lord Hand!" The boy poked his hand around the door, which muffled his voice as he spoke. "Two letters from the North."

Tyrion stood, nearly falling out of the chair in the process. Stumbling, he rushed toward the door and plucked the letters from the boy's hand. "Good work, boy." The boy winced, but Tyrion grabbed him by the shoulder. "I mean it, though. Come here once more tonight, and I shall have your head."

"Y-yes, sir…"

Letting the child go, Tyrion slammed the door shut, turning around and leaning against it for support. The weight of the letters in his hands nearly crushed his fingers. Turning them over, he saw a name he didn't expect. "Sansa…"

The Queen of Winterfell hadn't yet sent word personally down south. Correspondence had always been through her council, which changed in all three reports from the north. One letter was addressed to the king. The other was his.

Sliding to the floor, Tyrion sighed and set the king's letter beside him while fumbling to rip the paper open.

_My dear friend, Tyrion,_

_I'm pleased with the reports I've seen regarding your promise as His Grace's Hand. Whether true or not, I've prayed to the Seven you not drink yourself silly yet. It is far too early…even for you._

Tyrion's lips curled slightly. Lifting his eyes from her words, he rested his head against the door and sighed. "Ever as proper…and bold." The refined curls of the Queen in the North's penmanship expressed an empathy he probably imagined.

There was a quiet dominance in her writing style. Long red tresses flashed before his eyes. Although his heart still beat, seeing proof of her wellbeing eased tension in Tyrion's chest. Sansa was familiar, and familiar was such a safe concept to him.

_I'm writing to you personally because your guidance is needed in the north. We have an equal ratio of corpses to the living. Winterfell grieves more than we can afford in a time where food has become a luxury._

_With the pack displaced, Brienne in the south, and Lord Royce's return to tend to the Vale, my reign thus far has proven more solitary than I prefer. I recognize the disposition this requests places you in. I regret that I'm not particularly repentant for asking this._

_At the precipice of peace and edge of a war's end, I've learned to seek guidance when I'm at a crossroads. Yours is an opinion I value. Please consider coming north for any period of time for which Bran can spare you. Although under different sovereigns now, the north is still a friend of the south._

_At worse, you cannot come. There are many words I never had the opportunity to share with you since your queen's death. Not to fret. I have to believe your reply will come. There will be other letters. However, permit me to write plainly, if only for this one._

_I will not pretend to be anything with you save myself. I'm not sad that your siblings' died. I recognize my selfishness in saying this. Nevertheless, your sister taught me something of which I shall never let go. While kindness is not always possible as a ruling body, Cersei made me see that compassion is always a choice._

Tyrion looked away, wiping a tear before it could fall from his eye. Would the pain ever ease? Awkwardly standing, Tyrion narrowed his sights on the last of his wine perched atop his desk. Walking toward it, he pushed the glass next to the bottle away, favoring to nurse the ache with only aid that helped these days.

The last Lannister.

There would be no more tears on the matter. The choices he'd made led to a much better world than he could have hoped to help shape. He didn't deserve his life, but Bran had chosen him. Tyrion had no choice, but to do his best with the thousandth chance at life.

Even if he had no idea what to do with any of it.

_I will always choose compassion. For that, I owe her a great deal._

_Tyrion, we've not always seen eye-to-eye. For Seven's sake, please do not think I mean your stature! I am a queen now. You're the Hand of the king…We're no longer a helpless wife and drunk husband. I'd say we're equals._

_This letter is much longer than I'd intended. With only the walls with which to speak, I suppose I'm in need of good company. Whatever the outcome of this letter, know that I'm happier knowing you're alive. It could have gone a different way. I believe you saved us all. The North shall never be able to repay the Lannisters._

_Either way, let's start a new game. The rules are simple. Honesty. It matters not how vulgar the reply. I'll start._

_I remember laughter._

_Always your friend,_

_Sansa Stark_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

"_We_ need to rebuild, my king." Tyrion swallowed, looking at Sansa's letter to Bran on the table between them. "You must stay your focus on the realm. Winterfell has won its independence."

"So it must suffer in our silence?" Bran's impassive, soothing voice unnerved the imp.

Tyrion gulped a sip of wine, wiping his mouth and exhaling. "Your Grace, all I'm suggesting is that we send someone in my stead. Need I remind you my sentence was to the role of your Hand."

"Sansa trusts you, Tyrion. No matter whom we send, she will not be receptive to our instruction unless it is you."

Closing his eyes, he prayed for patience the Gods had long since drained. "You were just named, Bran. Drogon is still at large." He shook his hand, gripping the arms of his chair until he nearly lost feeling. "My place has always been King's Landing."

"No," Bran said. "Your place is elsewhere. Where, however, remains to be seen."

Tyrion looked away, the sea beyond the window capturing his attention. "I've been elsewhere, Bran." His eyes grew heavy and vision blurry. "It had good intentions, but disastrous results."

"You must go."

The sound of the ocean trickled in with a period of silence between them. Shaking his head, Tyrion met the king's gaze once more. "Please don't make me go."

Bran stared at him, eyes unreadable and dangerously calm. A smirk bloomed on his lips if it could be called even that. "I'm ordering you to travel north to nurture our relations with Winterfell."

Slamming his fist on the table, Tyrion narrowed his eyes.

"What have you to fear, Tyrion?" Bran sighed. "You've overcome White Walkers, survived a Mad Queen, and secured peace in Westeros. You have all you desired."

"Not all…" Tyrion's shoulders sagged. Falling back in his chair, he dragged his hand over his face, not wanting tears to win this battle.

Bran's mouth stretched. "Maybe you'll discover the rest…or at the very least, what you need."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_You asked for honesty. As you wish._

_I've started many drafts of my reply, so forgive my delay._

_You've crippled my tongue and mind. I am speechless._

_I'm sure you've heard the news of my upcoming visit to the expanse of white lands. My generous king has afforded you five months' time in my dreadful company. I leave by ship with a fine stock of what food, materials, and livestock we can spare in a month._

_Prepare yourself._

_I will hold you to your words. No matter how vulgar, you said!_

_I remember a hot mouth around my cock. _ _I'm ashamed by the stretch of time I've not revisited such a paradise._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

* * *

**[A/N] **Even though I'm still quite unhappy with the show's end, I wanted to make a canon-compliant "what-if" story. Because Tyrion and Sansa deserve to find each other again.** Please review!**


	2. Two

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** I really love your feedback and kind words. I'm honored you're reading.

* * *

_ ** Chapter 2 ** _ _ **:** _

_Tyrion_

* * *

_Tyrion,_

_I might cripple your tongue and mind, but you shock me. Being that I'm a Queen, I thought your reply would be more…diplomatic. I scarcely know what could be an appropriate response._

_Regardless, I am pleased you will venture here. The north always remembers. We shall never forget His Grace's kindness._

** _I remember lemon cakes._ **

_Sincerely,_

_Queen in the North_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Women would be the death of him.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Queen in the North,_

_I'm sorry if I offended your delicate graces. I humbly ask that you not ask for honesty from me in the future. You obviously are ill-equipped to handle it._

_A bit of free council:_

_If we were equals, you wouldn't sign letters reminding of your pretty titles. Don't make your reign built on lies. It's far too early for that…even for you._

_**I remember endless stores of wine.** It's a shame MY queen's dragon burnt them to a crisp._

_Not sincerely,_

_Not the Queen in the North_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

What had he done? Writing drunken replies to a queen of a neighboring nation was hardly the best way to begin a tidy foreign relation.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Tyrion,_

_Forgive me._

_The ghosts of the war still haunt me. Everything you wrote was true. I shall not have my rule based on lies. Lord Baelish taught me many lessons. I want no part of how he ruined Westeros._

_I have little to say aside from a thousand apologies._

_I trust few people. Although our family histories clash, I do picture a day where both of us speak freely. I might have pushed myself too far by claiming I could handle your life experience. Regardless of what I've seen, my young experience holds me hostage. I hope to be free someday._

_I value your counsel._

_**I remember my mother brushing my hair.** I miss her so._

_Always,_

_Sansa_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Tenderness.

Sansa's letter brushed against the emptiness in him, permitting a heavy sigh. He shook his head, unable to contain the way the words affected him. She was a daughter in need of her mother's guidance.

Sansa didn't need him.

Yet, the world was cruel due to the decisions of a deranged few. The rest of them had to live with the consequences. In a different world, she would have married a kind prince, virginity still intact.

The queen in the north was a woman. No longer a child. But she was still a lady. That was a miracle after the things he'd heard…the things she'd alluded to him.

He would not deprave her further. The world had done enough.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_To make my inevitable visit more tolerable, I want to convey my sincerest apologies. My letter was disgusting. There's no excuse for such behavior to a lady of your caliber._

_Admittedly, I've never been friends with a proper lady. The company of whores is more my level. It's all I'm worthy of._

_That you consider me a friend is a privilege I know not what to do with. If I make you feel uncomfortable, you may command me how best I can remedy my…life experience._

_You will receive this letter a few days before I arrive. We shall talk more then._

_**I remember my niece.** I miss her so._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The rocking carriage kept him awake. Winter had yet to ebb. He would never miss the foggy exhales the north made visible. No matter how many furs Bran had stocked him with, the cold paired with the fact he'd decidedly sworn off wine until he knew where he stood with the queen made for a decidedly unhappy Hand.

The caravan traversed through the north from White Harbor. Thankfully, he was alone. There was solace in his loneliness. He could make out words of those he had killed. For the moment, flashes of Varys' banter invaded his mind, casually reminding him of his true nature.

No woman would ever hold his heart or mind. Following Daenerys until the bitter end would be a sin for which he'd never atone. He'd trained his mind to steel against the delicacies of the fairer sex. Besides, who could ever love an imp who'd killed two of three of his loves?

Jaime should have lived. He should have stayed north with Brienne, but leave it to Jaime to ruin his future. It's what Lannisters did best.

Tyrion's gaze fell to his hands. These hands killed, pleasured, and hurt others. In no realm or afterlife could he be considered good.

The carriage hit a rock, breaking his dark thoughts. "What a pessimist I've become…" Peeking his head out of the door's window, he found a guard escorting him on horseback. "How much longer?"

The pale man looked to him, pointing ahead. "Look there."

"Excellent! A warm fire awaits us soon, then!" Tyrion examined the castle in the distance, passing abandoned homes and buildings along the way. The haste with which Daenerys insisted they leave for Dragonstone prevented him to really gauge the magnitude of damage Winterfell suffered.

Along the path they traveled, not bodies littered the way. Thank the Seven. From his distance, Tyrion saw parts of the castle still amongst the rubble of battle. Despite having months between that night and now, hardly any effort had been spared for the rebuilding of their capital.

The closer the caravan pulled him along, the more brutality he saw. Snow covered the horrors only so well. The piles of burnt corpses still lay to waste in the bitter temperatures.

Things were worse than what little she'd alluded to in her letters. Tyrion gasped, pulling his head back into the comfort of the carriage. Closing his eyes, he counted to whatever number he could remember. A stabbing pinch jabbed his chest with each breath. Flinching against the seat, he gripped at his chest, pulling the fabric trying to get more in with each breath.

Coughing, the Hand swallowed and shook his head back and forth. "Not again…"

A ringing burst in his ears, causing him to open his eyes, widening as his brows dipped together. His next breath shuddered out of him until he was out of air in his lungs. "Stop this, Tyrion. You're meeting Sansa in a moment. You have no time for this nonsense."

Within a moment, his body eased. He dropped his hand and tipped his head back against the carriage wall. "What I life I was spared to live."

The carriage stopped, and he was slow to stand, surveying the pelts and odds and ends he'd have to inventory later. Wiping his brow, moisture dampened the glove cloaking his appendages. "Fuck…" Patting his sleeve against his face, he did his best to dry his skin. When he felt ready, he said, "Open."

The carriage door opened swiftly, and he stepped down the steps. Once his feet hit the ground, he cast his eyes upward, immediately gravitating to the queen. Gulping, he plastered his best easy grin and pressed forward.

"Your Grace." Tyrion bowed, feeling several watchful eyes on him all around. Hearing snow crunch under shoes, he stood at his laughable height and exhaled as Sansa approached him. Her cheeks were more hollow than the Dragon's pit. The sharpness of her jawline paired with the bags under her eyes made her appear more world-weary and desperate. Despite the increased volume of her furs, she had thinned out. She was starving.

"My Lord," Sansa greeted her tone flat and voice low. "I'm pleased to see you; however, I must insist we continue within the castle at once."

"Of course, your grace."

Sansa looked to two men he did not recognize and said, "Please see to what we discussed. I will be unavailable for the rest of the day. Ensure my people are fed well."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Lord Tyrion, please follow me."

Sansa led him through the ruined castle until they arrived at her private study. The fire was already blazing, ready for their meeting. "I've located what I've been informed is our best wine for you, Tyrion. I know how uneasy the north makes you."

"Why aren't you eating?" Tyrion stepped toward her, causing her to straighten her spine.

Sansa tensed as he approached. "I do eat."

Tyrion reached for her hand, immediately feeling warmth there he hadn't expected. She'd taken off her gloves. His eyes lowered to their joined hands, gasping softly. "Apologies, Sansa," he said, eyes lowering to the side.

"No need to apologize, Tyrion. I'm honored you're concerned for my wellbeing."

Exhaling, hoping to calm his racing pulse, he stared at her. "I'm more than concerned. If things were this bad, you should have said so."

"My people have no home, their possessions are scattered amongst rubble and bodies of their families, and there is barely any food to spare." Sansa lowered to sit in her chair at the table by the fire. "They've been through enough."

Tyrion approached her, capturing her full attention. Those bright eyes set on him with an intensity he'd never noticed about her. Swallowing, he lifted his gloved hand and cupped her cheek. "You've been through enough."

"I love my people." Her words were a whisper he barely heard.

Nodding, he brushed a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. "And your people love you. You must take care of yourself, Sansa."

Sansa rolled her eyes, looking away and effectively moving away from his touch. "Yes, I'm so deprived from up in my warm room with my warm pelts."

"You agreed to my council, Sansa. You asked for my help." Tyrion lowered his hand and sat across from her at the other chair. Folding his hands in his lap, he looked to her. "You were born to be queen. I knew it from the moment we reunited here some months ago."

Sansa chuckled. "Even while you knew your queen would never let the north have independence?"

Tyrion closed his mouth, finding no words worthy to with which to reply. Shaking his head, looked to the fire, not for the first time missing Daenerys.

"You _loved_ her, didn't you?"

Tyrion's eyes widened, snapping back to her. "Daenerys is no longer _my_ queen. And my feelings or lack thereof for her matter not now."

"I saw it in the crypt, Tyrion. I thought I had nothing left to reason with you then. Yet you plotted with Jon to kill her."

Tyrion's brows dropped. "What do you want to know?" He leaned over, slamming his covered palm on the table, causing her to jump slightly. "Just say it." He exhaled twice until the anger subsided. Looking down, he relaxed, sitting back in his chair. "Please."

"You loved Shae, right?"

"I see no reason to bring her into this."

Sansa reached across the table for his hand, palm hovering before she touched him. Sighing, she settled her hand on the table next to his. "Tyrion, I've only heard rumors of your relations with Shae. Of what happened. I can only imagine the truth is far worse."

Tyrion's eyes watered, a tear dripping from his eyes as he glared at Sansa. "Why does any of this matter?"

Eyes following the stray tear, Sansa reached across the table and wiped her thumb at his cheekbone, catching his tear. Before he could react, she pressed her hand on his. "I grew up under the influence of horrible people. I've tried my best to do good. To be good."

Tyrion didn't move away from her touch. He sat still.

"Within the deepest parts of who I am, Tyrion, I'm exactly like Petyr and Cersei. I am a player without a game, which is dangerous. I need you to promise me something."

Straightening, he took a deep breath. "What else will you ask of me?"

Sansa's eyes became glassy, but she never left his gaze. "I love my people."

Tyrion drew his head back, rushing to stand and move toward her. "What is it you're afraid of?" He searched her eyes, gaze dropping down her face and onto her throat, noticing a gulp. A tear landed on his glove, stealing his attention. When he grazed his hand on her face, he felt her tremble. At once, he knew what she meant. "Becoming them…"

"Arya went west. Jon is exiled. Bran is in King's Landing." Sansa moved to stand, but fell, the chair toppling beside her. "Everyone I trust went away or died in battle. I have no Hand, no real council…"

"No one to tell you you're wrong." Tyrion fell to his knees beside her, almost matching her height while she wept on the stone floor. A ruler needed guidance. The principal was easy to understand. He hadn't been thinking of her when he'd suggested Brienne come to King's Landing. He'd left her defenseless and alone.

She sniffled, wiping her tears away. "I know you care about me like I care for you. You're one of the only few people I trust. You comforted me in the crypt. I thought we'd die." She shook her head and glanced up to him. "I cannot let my people's sacrifice go to waste. If I…_ever_…show signs…"

Tyrion's stomach lurched, the sensation so powerful he needed to steady his abdomen with a fist. His mouth hung open. "You think I could kill you because I've murdered two people I claimed to love." He reached for her face with both hands. "Is this what you're asking of me? Why you asked me to come at all?" When she didn't answer, he shoved himself away. "You said we're equals!" Why did he bring that up?

Sansa remained where she was, ensuring to never break her eyes away. "And we are! You've not denied killing people. You've admitted to whoremongering. I know you believe yourself to be bad whether you admit it here or not."

The flicker of the fire stole his focus. Closing his eyes, he desperately tried to calm the anger riling him up. "I am not having this conversation with you, Sansa. I no longer follow a queen. Do you have any idea what it's like to kill? To watch as someone's life bleed before your very eyes?"

"I do."

Tyrion's body froze. All he could do was meet her morbid gaze with trepidation. His stomach felt fuzzy and his head light.

Sansa's expression hardened. "I watched Ramsay be eaten by his hounds." A tear fell from her eyes. "I even enjoyed it."

Tyrion swallowed, unmoving from where he stood. Shaking his head, he looked away, the sadistic sparkle in her hues too much for him to bear.

"Does this make me a bad person, Tyrion? Will the Seven forgive me?"

Shoulders deflating, he turned to her. "Good people sometimes do bad things, Sansa." Carefully, he walked closer until his shoes brushed the edge of her cloak. Falling to his knees before her, he reached for her hand and kissed the back of it, thumb rubbing the spot for a moment.

She smiled. "You think I'm good?"

Tyrion only nodded. Words were useless underneath the swelling emotion rising in his throat. Smiling, he reached for her, bringing her against him. Stroking her hair, he closed his eyes. She clutched onto fabric at his back with both hands, crying into the fluffy cloak at his shoulder. Swallowing, he tried to stay his shaking hands.

Women would be the death of him.

* * *

**[A/N] **Please be assured, Sansa & Tyrion find each other in this story (not just literally). We'll have a dose of angst where appropriate. The main point I think is interesting is the healing after war ends.

**Please review!**


	3. Three

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** That you would spend your day reading my works is unreal. Thank you for sharing this story with me. It's for all of us!

* * *

_ ** Chapter 3 ** _ _ **:** _

_Tyrion_

* * *

The legacy of war is peace in a perfect world. No matter how glittering the promise of peace appears, Tyrion knew it to be a dream. The next several days were a test in his patience, to say the least. In captivity, Jon had said that love is the death of duty. Yet the more Tyrion watched over Sansa, the more muddled the sentiment became.

The queen in the north loved her people. Like no other ruler he'd seen or guided, she stood amongst her subjects. Almost like equals.

Tyrion held up his wine glass that caught a ray of sunlight, which highlighted Sansa's fiery red tresses. Twisting the glass with his fingers, the empty glass refracted the light, bending around the queen until she sparkled. The glowing, starved queen picked up a stray stone and handed it to a small girl. Both glistened from physical labor.

To Sansa, duty was an expression of love, a thriving entity that connected her to her people. Standing in a step up from peasant's clothing, her hair fell over her shoulder. Standing to her full height, she wiped her forehead and glanced to him.

Dropping the glass and tensing, Tyrion swallowed and coughed. "Fuck…" He'd been caught staring.

Wasn't he supposed to be watching her? He'd lost track of his purpose for a while. Shaking his head, he stood from the large stone he sat upon to begin meeting her halfway between them.

"You're a queen. Not a peasant, Your Grace."

Sansa's smile disappeared. "I understand; however, without a castle, having a queen is rather pointless."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. He'd banished her first smile in days. Why couldn't he say the perfect thing when it mattered most? Was his mind deteriorating? Was the alcohol finally getting to him in his increasing age?

"Point taken."

Nodding, the queen sighed, muttering, "Good." When she walked toward the castle, Tyrion followed. "Do you have any other comments, My Lord? You may speak your mind on account of my rule and position."

Surveying the rubble and activity of the workers, Tyrion gathered his hands behind him. "While I appreciate you treating your subjects fairly, have you given thought to the possibility of wearing more suitable clothes? Something that doesn't make you blend in with your people?"

Sansa stopped once they got into the castle. A torch burned high above him, providing a dim light for them. Her pale skin almost shined, but _that_ could actually be the alcohol. Her hands were also joined behind her back, shoulders perfectly poised. "I will not risk ruining my last few decent outfits with chores."

In contrast to the late Dragon Queen, Sansa Stark was _tall_. While eyes similar, Winterfell's queen had a white hue mixed in, making them brighter and less grey.

_You want to fuck the Stark Girl_, Bronn had once said years ago when they were married. He had the decency of feeling ashamed due to her youth then. Tyrion was not the same man, nor was she the same terrified girl.

Clearing his throat, he turned, assuming she was retiring to bathe, a sight certainly _not_ aiding in him avoiding the subject of fucking altogether around her. Sansa followed his lead. "What do your accounts look like?"

"We're a nation starving, Tyrion. If we had money, things would be better than they are. I could provide my people with suitable housing and safety once more."

Fixing his eyes on the stone floor ahead, he tightened his mouth before speaking. "Have you thought about a loan?" He barely noticed her stop. Turning, he sighed. "You don't like it."

"The idea isn't outlandish considering our situation; however, I'm hesitant to accept too much on-the-books help. I've pleaded the North's freedom for too long to accept debt as quickly."

"Sansa, there are things you will do alone, and there are things you will do for the good of your people."

"I don't want to be in anyone's debt."

"In your letter, you mentioned Winterfell is in the Lannister's debt," Tyrion countered, eyes wide with a challenge. "What's your rebuttal?"

Sansa brought her hands forward, fidgeting with her nails. "One man isn't all of Westeros." Quiet for only a second, she looked down each direction of the hall. Servants laughed and yawned in the distance. "Let's go somewhere more private." She led them through the halls back to her office. Closing the door, Sansa sat down in front of the fire. "I cannot fail my people."

"Sansa," Tyrion said, opting to sit beside her before the fire. "Failure is a huge part of how you figure out how to win." He peered up at her, stomach twisting. They were too close. Their shoulders almost brushed. Swallowing, he chuckled, the sound airy than totally whole. His breath pushed a stray batch of hair away from Sansa's face.

The crypt hadn't felt like this. He'd kissed her hand. Her delicate hands had willingly curled into his…the same hands that killed Shae and his father. Her bright eyes weren't scared in this dark room. Her flawless features illuminated in the fire's light, half darkened by the shadows of the room. Even starved, Sansa was beautiful.

The twisting expunged the air in his lungs until he felt like he was suffocating. Leaning back, he cleared his throat. Again.

Upon his withdrawal, Sansa gasped. Her eyes burned into the fire. "If you were my Hand, what would you advise me to do?"

A shiver ran down Tyrion's spine. He had to contain whatever was going on. "I-If I was, I would advise you gather your small council. Mirroring your government similar to the realm would be a familiarity with your subjects; therefore, they might see comfort in an otherwise bleak land. You only preside over one kingdom, so cut out what doesn't work."

She looked to him again, nodding. "While ships are important, given that we're building a new kingdom from the ground up, I thought we should switch Master of Ships to Master of Trade."

Tyrion drew his head back, smirking. "I agree. Commerce is vital for a developing nation." Sighing, looked into the fire. "One resource you might have over the realm would be the dragonglass weapons. Have you thought about using that as a means of export?"

"I've had what men I could spare survey the battlements for everything they could find. We've secured about half the approximate forged weapons."

"Good." Waiting for more information, Tyrion narrowed his eyes and diverted them back onto her when she didn't say more. "And?"

Licking her lips and sighing, Sansa looked into the fire again. Tyrion stared at her mouth for more than what was considered appropriate. Gasping, he shook his head, freezing when Sansa fingered the fabric of his sleeve. "Tyrion, are you alright?"

"Fine, Your Grace."

She scowled. "_Sansa_." She adjusted her legs under her skirts and kept her attention on her peasant-like dress. "I don't mind it in public, but especially when the setting is more intimate, please use my name."

Intimate…his mind crept closer to the place where pleasure is more than passing whispers in his mind. "What are you doing?" Tyrion groaned, slipping from her grasp.

When she turned, her brows were furrowed. "What am I doing?" Her features read confusion, but the exaggerated purse of her mouth made his mind wander.

Head shaking, he exhaled through his nose, eyes closing. Tyrion needed his mind to settle down. "N-nothing. There's a ringing in my ears. Head hurts." He shoved a finger in his hear to demonstrate the lie. Chuckling, he shrugged. "Must be all the wine."

"If you wish to go, you do not need to feel pressured to stay at my side for all of the five months, Tyrion. You're not my Hand." Sansa smiled weakly. "You're my guest."

Before he could respond, she stood gracefully and walked toward the desk. "I have business to tend to anyway."

— — — — — — — — — — —

The following two days, they danced around each other's presence, spending no more than a few minutes all day talking about the idea of her small council. She needed to select her Hand, but all her candidates were either south, dead, or exiled.

By midday on the third day since their awkward exchange before the fire, Tyrion knew he had to approach her. Otherwise, it would be obvious he was avoiding her. Being that he was a man of laughable honor, Tyrion had to mend things quicker rather than slower.

Without a structured castle and body of rule, Sansa's schedule was quite erratic. Sometimes she'd spend the whole day in the library. Other days, she'd sleep in an hour or two more. Most days, though, she did all she could to assist with the rebuild and assessment of their resources, which were frighteningly low.

Today, Tyrion couldn't find her anywhere. He'd asked about every servant in the crumbling castle where she was without success. His search eventually led him to the last place he'd not checked: The Godswood.

Perched upon a rock, she sat facing the white and red tree, appearing to pray, but he couldn't be certain. The snow crunched underneath his boots. There was no way she wouldn't hear him approaching, but he thought it best she knew he was there watching. She, too, could track the time he spent there watching her.

"There you are…" The words sounded disheartened. Tyrion winced. He should sound more neutral. A flow of wind passed between them. Stepping closer toward her, he admired the splendor of the tree hanging over them. He stopped until he was five paces behind her. Just out of her reach.

"Here I am…" She didn't move.

Swallowing, Tyrion tugged on his pelt around his shoulders. "I've been looking all over for you."

"I don't know whether I love or hate this place." Sansa silenced Tyrion. His mouth hung open, the words he was about to say drifting away in the passing wind. "So many memories here."

"Do you wish to share?" Breaking out of the spell, he found a rock situated across from hers and sat down, now about 3 paces from her. "You will always have my ear."

Sansa opened her eyes, sliding them over to him and dropping them to his boots. Slowly, he watched her take him in as her blue hues rose from his feet to his chest until she hazarded a peek at his mouth. "There are things I may never say. Not even to you."

Tyrion's skin tightened. The cold had nothing to do with the goose flesh crawling all over his body. He cleared his throat. "We all have our secrets."

Turning her attention to the tree, she stared at the face on the trunk. "Petyr Baelish swore his allegiance to House Stark here." She wiped a tear away. "He called me his love…professed his love to me…not for the first time…"

Tyrion listened to the leaves brushing together as another light burst of wind blew by. His gut clenched, and his fists tightened until the fabric of the glove dug into his skin. "Were you close?"

"If I wasn't a queen, I could make for a decent Master of Whisperers, I think. Sometimes I doubt that, but when a man like Petyr Baelish becomes predictable to you, you know you're clever."

"Why did he give you to Ramsay Bolton?" Tyrion's shoulders sagged, chest heaving in fresh air when he could.

"At the time, he was the Warden of the North. I'm sure it made sense to him and his pretty plan at the time."

"How did your spirit survive those horrors?" Sansa looked down at him, meeting his sad gaze. Her reply was silence. The leaves rustled, singing to them. In the distance, he swore he heard a bird chirping.

"Anyway," Sansa started, "it's also the place where I reunited with my family…where Jon made me swear not to tell a soul about who he truly is."

"Why did you tell me?" Tyrion stood, walking closer to her. "If you hadn't, things might have been different…"

Sansa remained seated, allowing them to match height as best as they could. Her eyes never left his. "It was a risk I could not take. The north was always my only focus. We had to be independent."

"You never gave her a chance."

Sansa's eyes watered. "Don't fight in the North or the South. Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before."

Tyrion stepped back. "Was that Baelish who said that?"

"He taught me many things." Sansa reached for his hand. "If anyone can understand what it means to lose all or most of your family, it's you. The Iron Throne beheaded my father and burned my virtue. I didn't want it after leaving King's Landing. I just wanted the north."

Tyrion pulled away. "Well, I'm happy someone got everything they ever wanted."

"There are things even a queen can't have." She dropped her hand and rested it in her lap. "The Dragon Queen took some things with her in death." Sansa looked away. "At least I know what I cannot have."

"Tell me, poor queen, what can't you have?" His chest burned and his nostrils flared. Lip trembling, Tyrion closed in toward her, a few inches away. While she was still taller, he could smell something scenting her hair, though he couldn't identify with all the wind. "She could have been a great queen."

"You feared her in the end." Sansa's breath tickled his skin. She didn't cower away as she might have years ago. "Is that a queen you should believe in, Tyrion?"

"She wanted great things."

Sansa drew closer, just a hair, but it was enough to send Tyrion's heart surging. "Many people want many great things." Her gloved hand landed on his coiled fist, soothing the tension out by rubbing with her thumb. When his hand was relaxed, she took it. "It doesn't make them right."

Tyrion gulped, frozen in his place before her. Tears stung his eyes, but he wouldn't let them fall. "What did she take from you?"

"I'll tell you all," Sansa whispered. Adjusting her hand in his, she picked at the fingertips of his gloves, one by one, until she slid it off his hand. Using her free hand, she clutched his wrist and brought him closer to her enough to do what she desired.

Starting from part of his exposed wrist, she trailed her fingers across the expanse of his tight skin to the tip of his fingers. The contact was feather-light, nearly imagined. The sensation trickled across his body, forcing his spine to shake under her command. When he exhaled, his breath was splintered and quick. Dropping her hand from his wrist, Sansa swallowed, eyes questioning him. Sadness veiled her eyes, protecting her from his scrutiny. Taking his finger between hers, she guided his palm to her warm lips. The pad of her thumb traced where her mouth had been.

Eyes dropping to her mouth, Tyrion stood dumbfounded and unable to say or do anything, including moving away. What she did was highly inappropriate—no matter how friendly they were. A shiver broke the bottleneck holding his mind hostage. "Sansa…"

"I know what these hands are capable of, Tyrion. I know because I'm capable of the same things. I've hurt people…maybe not with brute strength or weapon accuracy, but I need you to remember that we're the same, Tyrion." Sansa let a few tears fall, not moving to wipe them. "You're very gentle. You're kind. You're also crude, but I'm trying my best to let go of the past."

"What is it you want?" The fog clinging around his mind mixed with his racing thoughts impaired his reason more than any woman or drink had.

Sansa smiled, still holding his hand. "I want to be someone you are your whole self with. In turn, I want to be myself with you. Just honesty. I have no one in the world I trust with me. I just want one person to know who I am…completely."

Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat. "Friends…"

The little light in her hues died in sync with her forming frown. Fingers once soft as a whisper tensed until she nodded and grabbed his hand between both of hers. Swallowing, Sansa forced a smile, similar to one she'd used around Daenerys upon their first meeting. "Exactly."

* * *

**[A/N] **The next chapter will be lighter. I'm just setting up a few strings in these first few chapters. 

**Please review!**


	4. Four

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** I really tried to deliver on my promise. Sorry in advance.

* * *

_ ** Chapter 4 ** _ _ **:** _

_Tyrion_

* * *

The first month came and left as quickly as Daenerys' reign over the Seven Kingdoms. While Sansa was no closer to naming a Hand—or anyone on her Small Council—Tyrion was proud of Winterfell's progress. Sansa approached the Vale with a vital trade deal: one thousand dragonglass weapons in exchange for enough to pursue the most important parts of the castle repairs and a few months of contingency for food with King's Landing.

Word of what she'd secured reached the farthest edges of Winterfell: to all subjects save one exiled pack member. Sansa swore they weren't close, but Tyrion recognized complicated familial love. Jon trusted her not to tell a soul of his parentage. In exchange for her treachery, she was given a crown, while he was exiled.

Well, Tyrion supposed he was now missing. Rumors eluded him fleeing with the Wildlings. He really was gone. It wasn't his place or responsibility, but he'd promised her she'd see him again one day. She knew better than to believe a half-man's lie, but at least she'd stopped avoiding him.

Somehow, they'd fallen into a comfortable routine—one where she did not kiss his palm and he did not think about fucking her. It was for the best.

The weight in Sansa's cheeks returned: mostly. He shared his modest meals with her each night. He told her his stories about how he escaped Westeros and happened upon a queen in need of a Hand, and she settled on several ordinances until a proper creed could be laid down with the various lords across Winterfell, including appointing new faces to those families wiped out with the Great War.

Sharing their meal tonight, their routine broke. Sansa was whisked away after being told something whispered in her ear by a small boy. She'd asked him to stay in her office.

That had been two hours ago.

The doors burst open, revealing Sansa once again. Her eyes were red and puffy. He leaped from his chair and rushed to her side, taking her hand unconsciously. "What is it, Sansa?"

Her fingers closed around his. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes. "Reports from White Harbor. A band of stray Dothraki killed over twenty people before leaving the city." Her hand shook. Letting go of his hand, she moved to sit in his chair, which was closest to the raging fire. "Most of them were killed, but the strongest fled the city. They're on the way here to assassinate me."

Tyrion gasped, rushing back to her side. "I learned a few words while traveling with Daenerys," he whispered. "Perhaps I could negotiate."

"They rape and pillage!" Sansa shouted. "They're mongrels!"

Tyrion brushed hair out of her face, cupping her cheek. "I won't let them look at you, alright?"

"I knew this was a possibility, but I thought we'd be better equipped and fortified! The gates are still broken!" Sansa worked at her pelt around her shoulders, stripping off the heavy piece. She wore a dark grey ensemble underneath. "Tyrion, if they find me I _will_ kill myself! I will not be had again…"

"Don't speak of such nonsense." Tyrion pulled her into him, but she collapsed on the floor. When he touched her again to help steady her, her whole body trembled, but her eyes were solid, clear. Sansa really meant to kill herself if it came to it. "It won't come to that. I won't allow it."

"I can't stay in my room, Tyrion!" Sansa clutched his shirt, pulling it from his waistband. "Please let me stay with you. Theon's dead. Jon's missing. Arya's Gods know where…"

Tyrion's whole body warmed and froze all at once. "I'm not sure that's proper…"

"For fuck's sake, Tyrion! This is my life, what's left of me! Let people whisper. I don't care! I can't be alone!"

He flinched, unprepared for that language on her lips. "As you wish."

"You can't go outside until they're killed. If they see you here, it could start a new war!"

"My life doesn't matter right now." Tyrion wiped tears from her face. "All that matters is you. You're safe, Sansa."

"How do you know?"

Tyrion smiled. "Your people love you. They're armed with the weapons we used to defeat the Undead." He kissed her forehead, lingering far too long to be considered appropriate. His blood rushed all around. Thinking clearly since coming had proved to be almost impossible, but her life hung in the balance. The whole Undead army could resurrect once more, but he would defend her until he drew his last breath if needed. His life was meaningless, and that would be the most honorable way to die for someone as unworthy as him. "It's a force to reckon with."

Sansa's sobbing quieted, but she said nothing in return. Instead, she simply rested her forehead against his chest. He reached for her hair, gently stroking the soft tendrils there.

"My watch continues…"

— — — — — — — — — — —

"I've sent ravens to both Bran and Lord Royce." Sansa absently said from the desk in Tyrion's guest room. "I hope it reaches us in time." The wood chair squeaked as she turned back. "I'm sorry if what I said earlier disturbed you, Tyrion."

Facing the fire, Tyrion waved a hand over his shoulder. "I suppose I'd say the same thing if I had a c…was a woman." Downing the last of his wine bottle, he sighed. "The destruction of King's Landing is a day I shall never forget," he muttered. From where he sat on the floor, the heat from the hearth reached out, licking his face—even all the way through his beard. Screams, the smell of burning flesh, and the distant cry of surrender bells swirled around his mind.

"In the wake of burning corpses, the Dothraki managed to find dozens…maybe hundreds, of women and girls to violate. They had no preference for how they took them." The fire cracked, and he closed his eyes. "Some of them were even dead. Those men would fuck anything-"

"_Stop._"

"It was all in Daenerys' name…" Tyrion dipped his head back, holding his tongue out as he tipped the bottle over him. A few drops rained down into his mouth, earning a lazy grin. "When it was all over, the Dragon Queen did nothing to them. No punishment or a breath of reprimand." Wobbling, he stood, preferring the fire's song that stole his focus than the idea of turning around to face Sansa. "Though raped herself, she condoned such behavior in the name of liberation…"

Burping, he wiped his mouth. When did the intoxication set in? He'd been careful to drink slow. Hadn't he? "Can't remember…" he drawled, his voice sing-song and joyful. Tyrion shifted his attention to his feet, seeing several empty wine bottle surrounding him. "Well, that's not good."

"You're drunk." Tyrion jumped, legs unsteady. Hands caught his shoulders. "Careful…" Sansa's breath teased the back of his neck, sending his nerves ablaze. "What about your watch?"

Tyrion winced. Her voice was no longer warm, inviting. The deflection of the last words from her lips cut him deeper than any pain he'd endured in recent memory. Dipping his brows, he curled his top lip and whipped around. "You asked me to be who I am!"

For once, he looked down on her. Sansa sat with her legs stretched together under her simple, elegant dress. She'd lifted the pelts from her shoulders. At this angle, he noticed the curve of her breasts and her narrow waist. Throwing his hands up, he gestured to himself. "This is who I am!" The corner of his mouth stretched up. "I drink, and I know things…"

Sansa's eyes were wet, and they danced in his shadow up at him, searching for answers he knew not to give. "You're so much more than that, Tyrion." While she made no move to touch him, she didn't move back away from him. Their mouths were so close. All he had to do was reach for her.

He did not.

"You're a good and generous man, Tyrion. You've restored honor to House Lannister."

Tyrion softly chuckled. "If you believe that to be true…" Shaking his head, his eyes sobered. "Then you're more naïve than I thought." He walked around her, hearing her adjust her skirts to keep her heavy gaze on him.

"I was right about the Dragon Queen. I took out Baelish before he could use me any further. He, too, thought me naïve." Sansa curled her legs closer to her, no longer relaxed. "You said it yourself."

Tyrion looked over his shoulder. "And what was that?"

Squaring her shoulders, Sansa took a deep breath. "Everyone who has ever crossed me is dead."

"Is that supposed to be a threat, Sansa Stark?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "If you think I'm capable of hurting you, then you really are just an old, drunken fool."

"What if I am just an old, drunken fool, Sansa?" They shared a look, both remaining apart until Tyrion sighed. For some reason, his boots were now the most fascinating object in all of Winterfell. He flinched when he heard her skirts shifting. After a breath, he boldly stole a glance at her, seeing her straightening her skirts back to her original, relaxed posture by the fire. Legs outstretched, hair braided out of her face and flowing over her breasts and down to her waist, she looked otherworldly.

"Do you want to know one thing the Dragon Queen took from me?"

Brows twitching toward his nose, Tyrion faced her and stepped a few paces closer. "Tell me."

Sansa moved her hands to her hair, twirling the ends absently. "She stole the possibility of my words carrying weight to you."

Tyrion's chest constricted, aching until he had to comfort himself with his own hand on the afflicting spot. Rubbing the fabric above his heart, he swallowed, looking away. "That's not-"

"It is." Sansa nodded. "You can't even look at me when you lie, Tyrion."

A few steps toward her eased the burning in his chest. While dangerous, proximity to her offered him a momentary peace. The last person to make him feel this way, however briefly, he'd killed with his hare hands. "I don't want to hurt you."

Sansa glanced down, darting to her fidgeting hands. Fiery strands coiled around her pale finger, entrancing him. "Let's not build our friendship based on lies."

"Even if the truth kills you?"

"Wouldn't it be nice to have an equivalent exchange of honesty and trust with even one person?"

"In a perfect world, Sansa…" He took another few steps toward her, standing almost as close as he had previously.

Lifting her gaze to his, Sansa gasped, exhaling loudly afterward. "I'm tired of hiding behind pretty, diplomatic smiles and miserable, blank expressions, Tyrion." She reached for his hair, lowering her hand through his beard and twisting the hair between her fingers. Her eyes narrowed as if questioning herself.

A stray finger brushed his cheek, and he felt her shaking. He took her hand and couldn't stop himself from leaning in. "Sansa…"

"Since leaving Winterfell all those years ago, my heart has deflated of emotion. One by one. Joffrey broke me. He took my father from me. One by one, men used me, killed my family, and started wars in my name." Sansa curled her fingers around his hand. "I thought Ramsay would watch me for the rest of my life, lingering just beyond my shoulder."

Tyrion lowered his head to hers, bringing her hand to his chest. "Sansa..."

"I feel again, Tyrion." Sansa closed her eyes. "When the clouds lift away, and the sun, for a brief moment, shines on my face, I feel it. I touch the snow, and the cold stings my fingers again."

Swallowing, she nuzzled against him gently. "When Arya rode away, my heart broke. And when Jon fled north, the armor he'd sheltered me with disappeared." Tyrion moved his nose against hers, lifting his jaw and angling himself above her mouth. He reached around and settled a hand at the back of her neck, searching her eyes. "I'm naked, alone, alive and broken."

Sansa brushed her mouth against his, her touch fragile and delicate. "Break with me, Tyrion."

"Seven hells."

Tyrion shoved his lips to hers, eyes sagging closed and throat holding a guttural moan hostage. He parted his mouth to take them deeper, but her lips stayed closed. Touching the tip of his tongue against her lower lip, she tentatively obeyed him and opened slightly. Together, they stilled as he approached her tongue with his own. He drew back, but she chased his lips, capturing him and enslaving him.

The hand gripping the back of her hair tightened, clutching her hair and guiding it over her shoulder. She reached around and gathered the rest of her hair over her opposite shoulder.

They touched their tongues together, his more eager and hers unsure. The moan caught in his throat escaped just as she gasped. He'd never kissed a highborn lady before. Gone was the frenzied tongue war he was used to: replaced by an unyielding tenderness and peace. He slowed his perusal of her mouth and lowered his hand from her shoulder to the center part of the back of her dress, fingers crawling upward until he found the topmost buttons holding her dress together.

His mouth, still sealed on hers, distorted Sansa's moan. He tinkered with the top button until it gave way, moving onto the next few until he earned a small opening from her high collar. Tyrion unlatched only a few more until he was able to pry the stiff fabric away from her throat.

Sansa shivered as the cool night air seeped over her exposed skin. Tyrion's mind blurred with the promise of passion and protection in her arms. Bending the top of her dress back, he earned a better view of the top of her chest.

Never had the sight of a collarbone aroused him, but there was certainly a first for everything.

Hands moved to his back, stroking the many layers of clothes there. Opening his eyes, he reached for her jaw, which he lifted with his hand as he eased her back on the floor. Her long hair spilled back over her shoulders, but she didn't try and cover herself. They both heaved and gasped for air, desperate for something he could not name. "Sansa…"

He shifted over her, instantly freezing when his erection found the valley between her legs. At that exact moment, Sansa moaned, echoing and bouncing all around them. A bead of sweat pooled down his nose and dropped onto her dress. Had he been a grown man, he could both suck at her nape and earn that same noise from her all at once.

Tyrion moved toward her chest, lowering his mouth onto the nape of her neck. Sansa titled her head to the side, exposing more skin to his exploration. Grabbing a fist full of her hair, he teased her flesh with his mouth, sucking and warming her with his tongue. He shocked himself when he growled after she curled her fingers around his belt. The action sent a shockwave across his body, encouraging him to feast more ardently at the spot he claimed. His whole body shook, trembling in the wake of Sansa's demolition, breaking down walls he'd fortified ages ago. Tyrion chanced a light nip at her skin, earning him a wanton moan emerging from the deepest part of her perfect chest. The noise vibrated against his mouth.

Sansa adjusted her legs underneath him. "Tyrion…"

Of all the exotic lands he'd seen and foreign languages he'd heard in his life, his name on her lips brought his cock to full attention, hard and ready for her.

Sansa reached for his hand, claiming it as he descended her body to allow her body to cradle him once more. Placing a gentle kiss between her breasts, Tyrion arched his back and ground his cock at her center. Though they both had many layers between them, he felt her sweet warmth.

"Fuck, Sansa." Was she wet for him? Did she need him as much as he needed her? Would she come for him? Could she break for him? He was _so_ close.

Sharp gasps and guttural moans were all she was capable of saying in response to his attention. His arms shook, so he alleviated the pressure by resting his head on her breasts, increasing his speed. "Come for me, Sansa." Slamming his eyes shut, he suppressed the pressure burning his cock.

Sansa held his hand tighter the faster he worked them. Clothes had never felt more like a prison cell. He wanted to feel her against his bare flesh for hours. It would never be enough.

"Tyr…"

He looked up, seeing her bite her lip and squeeze her brows together. "Come for me." Arching her back, she shook against him. Her moan was quiet, desperate. "Break with me, Sansa."

Tyrion moved a hand, cupping her arched waist to steady himself against her. Fixing his eyes on her face, he knew he wouldn't last much longer. Tears glossed her eyes, and the fire radiated off her smooth skin. In the low, flickering light, her hair looked like real fire emerging from her skull.

Sansa was a goddess between his hands.

It was too late. He couldn't stop his body from erupting in the passion she'd inspired within him, evoking fresh, but ancient emotion long thought dried up.

"Tyrion…I…I think I'm…" Sansa shivered underneath him.

His throat swelled, blocking off whatever he wanted to whisper or promise to her then. Three more pumps into her skirts were all he could handle before he surrendered to her.

"Sansa I'm-"

Gasping, she opened her mouth and gasped. "Breaking."

Tyrion gulped, watching her break apart with him. Her eyes were closed, but she bit her lip again. Sansa was overcome with the passion he'd given her. Tyrion had done this, gotten her to this place. The sounds and sights of this moment he would never forget.

His pants were wet, but he stayed there, watching her fly back down from the heavens. Back to him.

"I've never…felt that before."

He didn't know if it was the words or the way she'd spoken them, but Tyrion's eyes widened. "You've never had an orgasm?"

A blush bloomed on her cheeks. "A what?"

"Fuck." Tyrion bolted upright, rubbing his face with the hand he'd pulled out from hers. "Fuck!" When he attempted to climb to stand, she reached for his face, snagging his attention back to her. He pulled away and grabbed her wrist tightly. "I'm drunk!" Tears stung his eyes.

"Don't leave me, Tyrion. Don't pull away!"

Tyrion threw her hands away from him. "No, this isn't right!"

"What's not right about it?"

"You're a girl." Tyrion turned from her. "You're a queen!"

He heard her rush to stand. "No, we're equals!"

Tyrion's eyes watered. He whipped around and seethed, head shaking. "No, Sansa! You've been brutally fucked by one single madman, while I've fucked dozens, possibly more than a hundred whores."

Sansa's face broke, tears pouring down her cheeks. He should have just slapped her. Why couldn't he shut up? He only ruined things and hurt people. The weight of the guilt her pain inspired in him crippled him much like his own brother and sister under the stones. He wanted to vomit.

"I'm a Lannister. You're not just a queen, but the Queen in the North. You're a Stark. A highborn lady undeserving of my impish attention."

The pain breaking her perfect features cooled, fixing almost as quickly as she had broken. She flattened her brows and mouth but made no attempt to wipe her tears. "I trusted you." Her chin trembled, despite the effort she poured in regaining her composure. He could see how much she was fighting. It was there in her eyes, which glistened in the firelight. Bowing lazily, She turned around and opened the door without fixing her buttons that he'd undone.

"Good night, My Lord."

"Sansa…" A tear left his eye. The door closed, and he fell to his knees.

* * *

**[A/N] **Ok. I'm going to stop promising lighter chapters, because the next one is a bit heavy, too. You will all have a bit of fluff in no time, but they apparently need to sort out their emotional trauma first. 

**Please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **Try not to think the worst by the end of this chapter. I still have a lot of story to cover!

* * *

_ ** Chapter 5 ** _ _ **:** _

_Sansa_

* * *

Sansa looked over papers scattered across her desk, examining a few while her mind tried to dally in dangerous directions. Narrowing her eyes, she cleared her throat and scanned the pages, mostly letters of congratulations, marriage proposals, and thanks.

A knock at her door made her jump, but she regulated her wild heart for a moment before signaling whoever was at the door to enter. It was too early for Tyrion to be about. He'd be nursing a nasty aching head for at least another few hours. A boy named Davon walked into the room.

The small, blond boy no older than when Bran had been pushed off the tower had belonged to The Spider's network. Once she'd been sent word of Varys' execution, Sansa saw an opportunity to strike. The boy had connected her to ten of Varys' little spiders and pipelines both in Winterfell and across the realm. It wasn't much, but she could quickly get information to key parts across Westeros. Eventually, she'd press him for more names, but she needed to maintain his loyalty, fostering this relationship to ensure he remained loyal to Winterfell.

"Are they ready?" Sansa asked.

Davon shook his head. "An hour or two more at least."

"That's fine." Sansa stood from her chair. "Still enough time."

"Is that all, Your Grace?"

"No," Sansa said. "It's not." Plucking a small bag filled with sufficient coin from her desk, she walked to the boy, handing it to him. "Quietly pack his things. I want no further delay."

"What if he wakes up?" Davon jingled the bag.

Sansa smiled. "Impossible." The man was slow to rise, as she'd discovered in his time here with her. Add in alcohol, he was much slower. "You're to collect his things and deliver them downstairs before the caravan is ready."

She turned to return to her desk, but the boy cleared his throat. "Your Grace?"

"What is it, Davon?"

"I've heard the savages were captured and killed some time last night by your bannermen. You're safe."

Sansa looked down at her desk, fidgeting with her hands at her stomach. Tears stung her eyes. She was safe. "Thank you."

Sansa Stark would survive without Tyrion Lannister.

All would be right again.

As soon as he left Winterfell.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

A few carriages were nearly finished when Tyrion emerged outside the desolate castle. "What's going on?" From her position behind the carriages, she heard him rushing toward them.

A lump caught in her throat, but she eased a breath out of her and inhaled slowly. That seemed to help her nerves.

Tyrion had his mouth on her last night. Hours ago.

Closing her eyes, she rid herself of the shame and heartache. She'd been right. His divided loyalties would always be a problem between them.

Her love was worthless to him.

Winterfell needed her at her best, so sending him and her feelings south would alleviate any distraction. Tyrion had mentioned over this month how he'd instructed Daenerys to do the same with a man across the sea from which she came.

Sansa would always be alone now. That had to be alright.

"Your Grace…"

Tyrion wore a crimson ensemble paired with a pelt she'd bought him in the market. His hair was disheveled. His eyes sagged, dark bags claiming the usual light hanging in them.

"My Lord," she replied passively. "The Dothraki threat has been eliminated by my brave bannermen. I see no reason why you must stay longer."

"I'm not due south for another four months' time." Tyrion stepped closer to her, but Sansa looked away at the castle. "Why are you doing this? Sending me away won't solve anything."

"My bannermen have reminded me of how resilient my people are." Sansa spared him a cold stare. "The north requires the south no longer."

"The south insists for continued cooperation." His eyes were small and glassy. Sansa noticed his bottom lip trembling.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "I bend for no man any longer, My Lord."

Tyrion reached out, but stopped himself. "Sansa, I need only a moment of your time."

Looking down at him, Sansa moved her eyes over him—from his feet back to his sad, pleading stare. "You would have had my life, Tyrion." Lifting her brow, she skillfully slid her expression to her default, disinterested stare. "I bring you a queen's mercy. Fly south and flee the cold, where you wish to be."

Without another glance, Sansa walked away from him.

"Please, Sansa!"

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Two weeks drifted to a month. Winterfell was better positioned with the repairs she'd overseen. The gates were fortified, and the food stores were replenished with at least seven month's worth if rationed.

While no paradise, her people worked alongside her in rebuilding. The dead bodies and decayed bones were witnessed fewer by the week. Any spare effort went to uncovering any dragonglass weaponry.

Stocking her more powerful neighboring nation with such rare artifacts wasn't a good idea to Sansa. The lords agreed; however, if it meant eating, she would consider parting with another small batch.

Life went on.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_I've written you dozens of letters. I'll only send you this one._

_We've heard more reports about Dothraki heading north. His Grace insists you accept our aid. Protecting you is in both our interests…the south and north._

_If the south can provide you anything, send word, and you shall receive._

_Please talk to me. Included is a package. Please enjoy on my personal behalf._

_I remember your smile._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Lemon cakes.

He sent her lemon cakes.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_I almost didn't eat them._

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Sansa rubbed the area above her collarbone. The mark was gone like many things, but the burn still scalded her skin. The Dothraki defectors made it all the way to the castle, but her people had protected her. Two of her men had died, and she'd given them a hero's death and compensated their widows. If her reports were to be believed, the last were supposedly out there still, somewhere in the realm.

Always alone, life as queen was more solitary than she could manage, so she'd resorted visiting what family she had remaining—in the crypts. Sometimes she'd spend hours talking to them. Others she'd go to sleep at her father's feet.

Without any word on Jon, Sansa felt isolated from everything. She wouldn't regret leaving the realm. Winterfell deserved that. She'd delivered her promise to her people.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_I've written drunken letters, angry letters, sweet letters…everything but the truth. I shall never realize the magnitude of pain I've inflicted._

_In order to deserve to tell you the truth, I must first earn your trust again. My watch remains ever steady on the northern horizon._

_I won't rest until you feel safe again, Sansa. Hurting you is the only sin I shall never fully recover from._

_Let's try to start somewhere safe for us both._

_I remember Jaime's laughter when we would play as children. Despite what everyone thought, he truly was a good man until the end._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Sansa wiped her tears away. There was no time to reread the same words she'd memorized a week ago. How to respond had confused her in such a way she could not understand.

Lord Royce entered her office. "Your Grace. It is time."

Nodding, Sansa closed her eyes and breathed. Slow. Steady. A section of the temporary housing in the village, along with fifteen of her people, was burnt to ashes.

Footsteps broke her thoughts. Lord Royce stopped a few paces away. "I understand your hesitation, Your Grace. Your bannerman and mine shall ensure they not breathe in your vicinity."

"I know."

He nodded to her once. "The North shall always have the Vale's support."

Sansa smiled, diplomatic and removed from her guarded heart. "I shall always remember your loyalty, My Lord."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Tyrion,_

_I wish for many things._

_I should properly thank you for the lemon cakes. They were everything I remembered._

_I know not how to say cross with you anymore. However, trust is a luxury I simply cannot afford to anyone. Not again._

_In Bran's letters, he hardly shares the splendors of the reconstruction of King's Landing. While I will never return, there were a few perks about the city._

_I remember the pretty dresses. Despite hating the capital, I was always fond of the fashion._

_Regards,_

_Sansa_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

"What say you to the charges?" Sansa impassively recited. Her back was straight against her throne, mental defenses and walls impenetrable. She'd cleansed all emotion from her mind. There was no room for hysterics around people like a Dothraki.

The bloodied and broken man charged toward her, but the chains held him in place. Her bannermen had beaten him, wearing down his strength for her protection. The man's eyes were swollen, one shut entirely. The side of his face was twice the usual size. "I come only to avenge my Khaleesi. I live by Dothraki law." Despite being an outlander, this man spoke decent Common Tongue.

"So be it." Looking to the side, Sansa nodded to the guards. "I sentence this man to death. May it bring peace to those he has hurt."

"I am not the last." The Dothraki man spit in her direction. "More will come. Men who know where you lie at night…"

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_King's Landing fares well—all things considered. We rebuild based on necessity, although our stores of coin weigh more than yours. We shall know peace._

_Someday._

_Brienne makes an excellent leader for the Kingsguard. I'm sure she sends you missives with her own updates, but I wanted to apologize for insisting she come south. I never meant to take anyone from you._

_In a way, I feel responsible for her. Jaime loved and left her to die with Cersei. Equipping her with a well-deserved role in the rebuilding process provides me with some comfort on Jaime's behalf._

_She never inquires about him, nor do I mention him to her. Us Lannisters are terrible to those we care for, it seems._

_I remember having family obligations and duties. Now that I am the sole surviving Lannister, I cannot say I do not miss it. I would give much to have a family again._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The crypts were the only place no one heard her crying these days. Holding Tyrion's letter to her heart, she wiped at her tears, sniffling obscenely for a lady. Had she been a stronger woman, she might not have tasked the little spiders to watch Tyrion. All she'd wanted to know was if he was all right. With each passing day, the need to see him welled closer to the gates of her heart.

Knowing he was in good health and spirits was all she needed to know. The Gods were punishing her.

Tyrion frequently visited the same brothel. Sometimes twice a week. Other times, each night. Usually with several women at once. Always drunk.

The Hand had no obligation to her. She'd pushed him away. More than ever, she knew she would never satisfy him. While inexperienced, she'd heard Ramsay detail his conquests to her. Paired with the celebration the night after the battle where nearly everyone fell into each other's beds and screamed the whole night, Sansa could only imagine what tricks and skills he'd require to peek.

Not for the first time, she cursed Ramsay, the man who'd brutally ripped away at the one thing Joffrey hadn't taken: her virtue.

She was no longer a maiden, but she was far from the experienced temptress a man like him needed. Sansa was not enough for him.

A life with Tyrion Lannister, no matter how powerful her love, was impossible.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Tyrion,_

_I can bear no longer my correspondence with you. I believed myself capable, but it's as I've said in the Godswood: I know what I can't have._

_I had no ill will or motive in using my connections to check on you._

_I wish I hadn't._

_I remember dreaming about marrying a perfect prince. Life was much simpler then._

_Regards,_

_Sansa_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Sansa wiped her tears. It mattered not. Tyrion might have felt attached, but it was mostly because of their forced marriage when she was only a girl. Being that he'd only been decent to her, it made sense why he'd want her taken care of.

Sansa was a few years older, but he'd only ever see a girl when he looked at her.

Sitting in the same spot she'd hidden with him, Sansa opened her eyes, looking to where he'd been.

He was there no longer.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_This is not a subject appropriate through letters. We shall continue in person. I have many things I have to say if you permit me._

_However, please know it went on for only a matter of weeks. Thought I needed a distraction._

_I was misguided._

_Please don't stop sending your thoughts._

_I remember when words were easy for me. Nothing is easy anymore._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Sansa rode on horseback through the woods around the palace with two armed guards, who followed her at a slower pace to permit her some privacy. Snow fell, lightly brushing and melting when they landed on her cheeks.

The forest still had many corpses, thankfully buried by layers of snow by now. Sansa navigated the horse through the forest, her pace slow and spontaneous. Her gloves weren't thick enough for the day's brutal temperature, but Sansa didn't care for fleeing back to the warmth of the castle just yet.

In the distance from between the trees, which darkened the further away they were, a wolf howled. It sounded sad the closer she listened to the wind carrying the sound toward her. Brows dipping, Sansa slid off her horse and rushed, picking her skirts up to avoid the rubble and buried corpses. The howling stopped, but she continued her pursuit in the same direction.

"Your Grace!"

The guards' voices died, the wind now howling past her frozen ears. She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder and seeing no one. She paused to catch her breath, which fogged all around her.

Fear crippled her from venturing farther. Swallowing, Sansa looked forward, closing her eyes and praying to the Seven for strength. It didn't matter why she had to keep moving toward the wolf. All that she knew was that she had to. Deep in her soul, something called out to her.

She hadn't any expertise with blades or bows and no hope for running very far from danger. Each day, she carried the blade Arya used to kill the Night King. Looking down, she coiled her fists and shakily withdrew the knife.

She was a Stark. She was a queen. She could do this.

Tentatively, she stepped forward until she couldn't stop, using her arms to shield her face from slapping branches as her pace quickened. Up ahead, a clearing emerged. The morning light shone over it the closer she came to it. Gripping her knife, she slowed her pace.

At the edge of the trees, Sansa scanned the open area from left to right. When the sound of weak whimpering stole her attention, she held her hand over her eyes to dim the light's intensity. A small wolf pup was alone at the clearing's center. Sansa gasped, stepping closer.

"What are you doing all the way out here all alone?" The pup whined, backing away from here a step. However, Sansa knelt down, plucking her glove off and slowly offered the back of her hand to it.

The winter temperature cut at her skin, but the soft grey wolf pup took a few steps toward her. As it lifted its head to her, she noticed the fur around its eyes: symmetrical snowflake shapes. "You're beautiful, little one."

Something howled at her, but it was certainly _not_ a wolf. Sansa's body trembled. A full-grown bear at the edge of the trees stared at her. Swallowing, she held out the knife. What did one do when a bear was around? Should she shout? Was she supposed to run?

Reaching for the pup, Sansa made her best guess: run away. With the pup cradled in her arm, she used her other hand to clutch her skirts, so she could run faster. Looking over her shoulder, the bear was right behind her.

Time slowed, and the sound of her breathing drowned out every other noise. Tears drenched her face but felt like knives trailing down her skin. Ducking, she managed to narrowly escape its claws. Turning her eyes front, Sansa cried out when the bear sliced across her back. Falling to her hands and knees, she did her best to crawl quickly enough.

The pup fell out of her grasp just as the weight of the bear crushed Sansa to the ground. Hot tears stung her eyes, blurring the world. Her ribs crunched somewhere against a rock on the ground. She couldn't breathe. Another slash at her back dragged her closer to the beast. Her body rotated ever so slightly. Teeth sank into her waist.

Suffocating, she darted her eyes everywhere, seeing the knife still tangible. Gasping for air, she closed her eyes, wishing the tears would stop. They didn't, but slamming her hand around the ground earned her the knife. The bear dragged her until her back was flat on the ground. She convulsed. The world was fading, but she could not die.

Sansa didn't know if the Gods blessed her or not, but she managed to muster up enough energy to rush the knife in the bear's skull before it had another opportunity to bite or slash at her. A last, faint growl came from the bear before it's body toppled over her.

Shaking and whimpering, she tilted her head as far back as she could, peering in the direction she'd come from. Though her vision was blurry, a raven landed just a few feet from her. Gasping, her shivers grew more urgent. Shadow-like figures moved in the distance toward her until the world slipped away.

* * *

**[A/N] **What will happen next? 

**Please leave me your thoughts!**


	6. Six

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **Thank you for your kind comments. I really appreciate them! :)

* * *

_ ** Chapter 6 ** _ _ **:** _

_Sansa_

* * *

An abundance of pain cocooned around her, trapping her in an endless rage of misery. Mixed with the darkness, she could hear the faint sound of a fire crackling somewhere. Sansa heard voices, distorted by the barrier holding her hostage.

The darkness claimed her again. Until something touched her cheek. Held her hand? A light bombarded her closed eyes, ripping the darkness before her until it shattered.

Cold. She felt cold. Something soft over her shaking body. Something furry nuzzling her face. The light cracked, and the darkness won again.

Moments…hours, possibly, went by. Days?

Where was she?

The light flashed over her eyes, which twitched in response until her eyes opened. The world slowly sharpened, revealing her room. The room was dark, but somehow it was still too bright. She closed her eyes and tried to lift her hand, but a searing pain scorched across her body, gnawing and scratching until she cried out.

Except she couldn't cry out. Breathing was laborious, impossible. Tears blurred her world again, but a coarse hand touched her hand.

"Praise the Seven!" a voice that sounded vaguely like Brienne's whispered. Her touch was gone as quickly as her warmth anchored Sansa's focus to something other than the pain that itched everywhere. "Come at once! She's awake!"

Something rolled on the stone floor toward her, revealing Bran. When she tried to speak, she recoiled, her lungs striking against her ribs. Her eyes never left her brother's.

"The pain will go away, Sansa."

Pelts were thrown over her body, but she knew she was mostly naked. Darting her eyes, she realized that if she budged from how they'd laid her, pain would burn her.

They'd not seen each other in months now, but he would always be distant, cold—as she hungered herself to be. If she didn't feel, she wouldn't endure the demons or emotions that bind her.

The room was so cold. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. Now, she was trapped here with no voice. Would her body be immobile as Bran's was?

Sansa angled her chin down, closing her eyes to stop the tears.

"Rest, Sansa."

Something tickled her feet from under the pelts on the bed. Eyes wide, she broke focus from Bran and tried moving her legs to stop the sensation, but she yelped out in pain. She curled on the large bed and cried. Something fluffy pressed against her arm, making her cringe.

Whining sounded near her ear behind her, but turning her head was impossible. She looked at Bran.

"You saved the direwolf pup. He hasn't left your side since you left the forest."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

It was the middle of the night. Four days later, and she figured out she was not like Bran, bound to a chair for all his life. Speech still painful, Sansa hadn't spoken to anyone, save when someone was switching her bandages and rags. She wasn't like Arya or Jon.

Sansa Stark was a lady, as everyone constantly reminded her. When something hurt, she showed it. She had not the strength to suffer in silence. Brienne stayed her unyielding vigil with Sansa, not leaving the room unless something came up.

Bran visited her when he could. Forced to surrender control over Winterfell while she healed. Everyone said it was Bran who took over, but she'd heard the servants speaking about an imp's presence in the castle. He'd not stopped by.

At least, not when she was awake.

A large mirror in a corner of her room offered her encouragement: seeing what the beast had done to her body. She could only imagine how it looked. Because of her wounds, she wore loose-fitting nightclothes. Each morning, she braided her hair in one braid over a shoulder by herself, because Sansa had to do one thing on her own before she went mad.

The pup stretched on the bed beside her, yawning. Sansa had woken him. She hadn't figured out if all this pain was worth saving his spoiled soul. She struggled to keep her body sitting up, but she had to know what she looked like.

"Brie…" Sansa clutched her chest, shaking and wincing. Closing her eyes, she swallowed. "Brienne…" The knight snored in the corner from her chair. Sansa reached for a pillow, clutching the tip and pulling. The pup fell over the side of the bed. She wasn't even sorry for the little guy.

Hazarding her luck, Sansa lamely chucked the heavy pillow toward her watcher. It landed several paces to the right and managed to make it a few steps between her and the bed.

Brienne's snoring continued.

Sansa needed to think. Eyes sliding down on the pup, she slowly sighed. "I should…" Wincing, she twitched her brows together, continuing, "…throw you…at her." She could speak no louder than a quiet whisper. The pup whined, tapping his nose against her leg. "Like you…understand…what I'm saying…"

Sansa noticed a glass on her bedside table just out of reach. She looked down. "Move…or this glass will…fall on you." The pup rushed to the foot of the bed.

Situating her eyes on the table, she noticed the knife next to the glass. She might fall and further cut up her body. Dropping a heavy knife might do the trick. Stretching, Sansa grumbled until she brushed the tip. Her shaky fingers hardly moved it closer to the edge.

Sansa slowly guided her body back onto the bed, feet dangling in the cold. Between the constant snoring and the pup licking her toes, she would go mad.

This night would never end.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Brienne left to tend to her duties to Bran for a few hours. Sansa woke up to the pup licking her cheek.

"No…"

The licking continued. She lazily lifted her hand, pushing at the pup.

"Fine, I'm up…"

A thick robe was set out on a chair just out of reach. Someone had fixed her in her bed, replacing the pelts over her body. Sighing, she blinked slowly, trying to breathe as deeply as her body would allow—until the pain was too unbearable.

It took her a minute to sit back up, but when she did, she used the momentum to push herself toward the chair. The dark purple robe made of a thick material she could not place fell to the ground in her attempt not to fall. Bending her legs slowly, she knelt down, grasping the fabric to slowly pull it over her nightclothes. It fastened in the front via buttons. After several minutes, Sansa meandered to the mirror, inspecting herself. She was pale, and her cheeks were gaunt again.

Looking away, she swallowed and looked to the door. A sword was propped against the wall near her bed. She could use it to aid her walking. For now, it would have to do. She spared one last look at herself in the mirror. Harsh dark circles dominated underneath her eyes. She'd always looked so horrid when ill.

Her hair was messy, so she pulled the band at the end of her hair and fingered through her sloppy side braid. The robe was a compromise between nightclothes and her usual dress. The color suited her in the dim light of her room.

Sighing, Sansa took one step at a time toward the sword until she clutched it in her palm, testing what pressure she needed in order to walk efficiently so nor to welcome any unnecessary pain.

She was so tired.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The halls were mostly empty, but the further into the castle she explored, she heard the sounds of shouting. Was an assembly going on?

Without consulting her?

The pup kept her pace, playfully growling up at her for attention. She waved him off.

Sansa leaned against the stone wall, resting and catching her breath as best as she could before continuing. The sword helped, but she was most certain she shouldn't be traversing the castle while still healing. After two weeks of confinement, her body was only now recovering some energy. Pushing her body likely wouldn't help the amount of time required for her to heal.

She reached the great hall. The doors were open, but a crowd blocked her path.

"We must send our bannermen out to find these mongrels!"

Shouting intensified, making her wince. Grasping her forehead, she lost sight of the pup, which wormed his way through the crowd blocking her path, earning a few curious stares.

"Sansa is our queen. She must guide us."

A pause broke the infighting. "Sansa is still recovering from her attack," a familiar voice spoke.

"Jon…"

Men turned, seeing her and immediately parting.

"Her Grace is bedridden for some time," Jon continued.

Sansa steadied herself, using the sword as a cane, and walked through the men. As soon as she was visible, the opposite side of the room fell silent. It took a moment for Jon to turn around. He stared at her while she made her way to him.

"What…is the meaning…of this?"

Jon looked passive, his eyes sympathetic. He neared her, lowering his voice. "You're supposed to be resting." His gaze lowered to her chest and back up. Swallowing, he slid out under his pelt and eased it over her shoulders. "You shouldn't be out dressed like that!"

Sansa chuckled softly. "You're supposed to be…north of the Wall." The pup settled beside her feet and growled slightly. She searched the room, spotting the Wildlings off to the side. "I see you've…brought in reinforcements." Her voice was only a whisper. She desperately wished to be louder. She lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders. When the pain burned her, she flattened her lips together and twitched her brows. She lifted a trembling hand to just below her breasts, which provided her more support. Gulping, she opened her mouth. "What is going on?"

Tyrion cleared his throat. "More Dothraki sightings. We're sorting out what to do about it."

Sansa lingered on him for far longer than necessary. "What is the consensus?"

Tyrion straightened in his chair from behind the table. "Your Grace, I am in favor of fortifying the castle and drawing them here, as you have done the past few months."

Sansa glanced at Jon. "The problem?"

Jon put his hand on her cheek. "A queen is never to be bait."

"You know a lot about queens, Jon." Sansa pressed her hand at her ribs, increasing pressure. She hobbled away from him and moved toward Tyrion, locking eyes with him. "They want to kill _me_. I will not have my people slaughtered in my stead."

Shifting her gaze around them, she felt every stare on her body. Jon's pelt was so heavy, but she couldn't deny she felt more confident bundled up in such improper attire. Sighing, she winced when the pain flogged her lungs. Anchoring her eyes back onto Tyrion, she licked her lips and continued. "What do our reserves look like with all our new guests here?"

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, joining his hands together. "We had issues with the rationing at first, but all misunderstandings have been resolved. Winterfell is stocked for five months."

"Five months?" Sansa moved her attention to Jon. "Two weeks ago it was seven." She narrowed her eyes. "They're eating our food and enjoying the use of precious resources. What do they give in return?"

"Your Grace, we came south of the Wall to protect you."

"I don't need protection, Jon. I might have no dragons, but I'm damn good at this without the interference of others who aren't involved with Winterfell's affairs."

Jon shifted his gaze to Tyrion. "What involvement does he have in your affairs?"

"You're always so short-sighted, brother."

"He's a Lannister!"

Sansa looked to Tyrion, who tensed and clutched the arms of his chair. "So everyone reminds me." Lip trembling, she dropped her gaze to his cheeks. He'd shaved recently. A new beard, shorter in length, but more maintained, grew in the place of the previous. Shaking her head, she focused back on him. "Tyrion is a kind, capable man whose invaluable counsel I respect. He's a formidable ally to Winterfell."

Sansa leaned against the sword, so she could turn back to Jon. "I need to rest now." All eyes were on her. She looked to Bran for the first time. "Consider the matter resolved." Sansa looked down at the direwolf pup and motioned for the door from which they came.

As she passed Jon, he grabbed her wrist, holding her steady. "We're here to help, Sansa."

"Help?" Sansa chuckled. "You can start by clearing out the rubble in some of the rooms across the castle. If you stay, you work to earn your keep." Tearing away from him, Sansa turned to Bran. "Might I borrow your Hand to catch up on all I missed?"

Bran glanced to Tyrion. Sansa caught an exchange between them, but what it meant was up to interpretation. Bran's stretched his mouth and glanced back to her. "He is all yours."

Sansa nodded, her attempt at a bow. "Thank you, Your Grace."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

"How long has it been…since you arrived?" Sansa shrugged off Jon's pelt onto the back of her chair, relieved to be free from the weight. Leaning back allowed her to stabilize herself, which she'd discovered made it easier to talk.

Tyrion stared at something on the desk. "The day after you were…"

"My brother's doing, I assume?"

"Bran had a vision. We left at his command."

"Look at me…"

"You should have seen the caravan. Traveling with a cripple sure does change travel plans…"

Sansa sighed. "Tyrion…"

Tyrion leaned into his palms, shielding his eyes from her. "I can't, Sansa."

"Why not?"

Tyrion grabbed his hair, fisting it. "I don't know what I will do when we're like this."

"Like what?"

"Alone." Tyrion straightened, dragging his eyes on her. "I don't know if I want to grovel or kiss you, and it's maddening."

Sansa's lifted the corner of her mouth, settling her hands on her lap. The pup nuzzled against her ankles, opting to sit on her feet. Sansa felt her cheeks warm. She looked down. "I want to tell you something and have the conversation end." She heard him shift in his chair. "For now." Lifting her attention back to him, Sansa swallowed.

"Go ahead."

"I thought myself incapable to perform…certain activities…after Ramsay died. I can only imagine you've seen his scars on my back by now, so please spare me from detailing my marriage and use your imagination." Sansa blinked away the tears trying to form. "I never wanted him to…have me. I thought that part of life was over for me." Sansa shook her head. "It might still be."

"Can I say something?"

Nodding once, Sansa said, "Speak freely."

Tyrion reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. He paused, looking away, but clearing his throat. "I cannot imagine what you endured, Sansa. Life…it has an ironic way of proving you wrong when you least want it to."

"I wasn't prepared to feel again." Sansa fidgeted with her hands. "I'm still not." Both were quiet for a few seconds until she continued. "I have no experience in…pleasing men. I cannot promise I ever will."

Sansa gathered a couple papers and collated them into a neat stack off to the side. "I analyze everything I do, Tyrion. It's who I have to be."

He opened his mouth to speak.

"Until you…well, until after that night." Clearing her throat, Sansa exhaled slowly. "I don't know how to kiss. I've never…felt what you made me feel. In my head, I'm scrubbing through…every woman you've bedded—competing to be better."

"Sansa."

"The problem is I never will be better…or decent, really. I know I will never be enough for you…" Sansa broke down, features coping with her sob. She moved the back of her hand to her mouth. "And it's really hard knowing that, but it's true." Tyrion moved from his chair to her, moving to touch her face, but she moved away, haphazardly standing and turning away from him. She used the desk to steady herself. "I can't think about you with other women after…"

Tyrion's voice broke. "You must sit. I won't touch you…"

Sansa whirled around. "That's just it, Tyrion…" She wiped her eyes dry, but continued crying. "I want you to…

"Sansa, please sit. You're exhausted." Tyrion dipped his brows in concern.

She sat down, looking at his hands. "Why, Tyrion?" She searched his eyes. "I trusted you, and you so easily warm another's bed."

"Because I believed I loved Daenerys." Tyrion snapped. "You were right, Sansa." He gripped her chair's arm. His finger was so close to her hand. "Even dead, she still commanded my life." He drew closer but respected the distance she needed from him. "I hated myself for loving someone capable of murdering thousands of innocent lives. How could someone who loved someone like her love someone like…" Tyrion sucked in a breath, exhaling and shivering. "You said I feared her. The truth is I fear you, too, Sansa." He closed his eyes, touching her head with his. "More than anything else in my entire life. I was afraid of what that means."

Sansa exhaled, her breath spreading over Tyrion's face. His opened eyes and looked down at her mouth. "I wish more than anything that I could be a man you deserve. If you knew what I do about me, you'd see that all I am is a small coward…a failed Hand to a dead queen I arranged to murder."

"I wish you saw what I see in you." She kissed his forehead. She moved her finger to his downward chin, lifting his gaze back to hers. When he settled, she moved a finger, stroking the side of his face through his beard. "I don't want a king. I don't want a Hand…"

He pulled back. "What do you want?" Sansa smiled, staying quiet. He narrowed his eyes, exhaling wildly. "Do you trust me, Sansa?"

"I want to…"

Tyrion nodded, dropping his gaze to the floor. "My watch remains, then."

Sansa's stomach tightened when he remained close to her. But eventually, she had to disengage before she gave in. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For maintaining my rule so effortlessly while I nearly died."

Tyrion's features darkened. "Please don't joke about that."

"Sorry…"

"Sansa?"

"Yes?"

Tyrion dropped his hand from her chair. "You're a damn good queen."

* * *

**[A/N] **Well, Jon's back. How will this affect our favorite couple going forward? 

**Please comment :)**


	7. Seven

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **Updates might slow down until next week. Expect an update tomorrow or Friday.

* * *

_ ** Chapter 7 ** _ _ **:** _

_Sansa_

* * *

The cold night pinched the skin at her back, while the raging fire warmed her cheeks. A thin layer of drying sweat coated her body. The stool she sat on was in no way comfortable. With no back, she fought to maintain her balance, thankful for her heavy pelt at her shoulders to anchor her.

Arms crossed, she allowed the flickering fire to daze her into a calming, mindless spell until the door to the storeroom slammed open. She didn't turn back. Sansa had no interest in speaking with anyone for the moment.

Brienne sat at the opposite side of the chairs and stools in the room at Sansa's request. Her nightmare had kept them both from enjoying the sleep they so desperately craved. The pup rested on top of her feet. The little troublemaker appeared to sleep.

Footsteps rushed in toward her, echoing around the room. "What was with the screaming?" Jon rounded her, kneeling before her. "Was there an attack?"

Sansa moved her eyes from the fire to him. "A nightmare, brother." More footsteps approached behind her in the span of shared silence between her and Jon. The sound of something rolling eventually stopped. When she looked to her side, Bran nodded to her but affixed his focus on the fire.

The large, ginger Wildling leader gulped something in his horn, belched, and claimed the chair beside Brienne, who scooted away awkwardly. "Ain't this reminiscent? It's like the Long Night all over again."

Sansa ignored the big outlander, opting to stare down at Jon. "How long did you say you were staying?"

When he reached for her hand, she slid out of his reach, shaking her head. He growled. "Sansa, the Dothraki aren't going to bend their tail between their legs. They're out for blood." He placed his hand on her knee. "I won't let them harm you."

"You're supposed to be in exile!"

"Sansa," he whispered, pleading. Jon narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on her leg. "What do you want from me?"

"There are few who could handle my honesty, Jon. You're not among them." The pup stretched on the floor, stealing her attention. Playfully growling, the pup stood, climbing as far as he could reach against her leg. Slowly, she bent down, collecting the rascal. She set him in her lap. His paw brushed Jon's hand, which he moved off of her.

"I killed Dany to protect you…" Jon tightened his fists at his side. "You were never going to bend the knee."

"Jon, look at me," Sansa whispered. Lifting his eyes, she sighed. "You abandoned the north from the moment you bent your knee. After everything I did to save your life in the battle against Ramsay…You will never know what asking Littlefinger for help did to me."

"Sansa, stop."

"No, Jon." Her voice was distant, yet exquisitely lethal and practiced. "You were my choice, yet you forced me to surrender my choice again. My pride broke because of you."

Jon's eyes were murderous. "I loved her, Sansa! I did everything I could to ensure peace between her and the north. We built the greatest army to fight against the dead. Yet you constantly challenged her authority, despite me ordering you otherwise." He stood to his full height, looking down his nose at her. "All you had to do was obey."

"I believed in you, Jon. The North loved you." Sansa lifted her nose. "You were no longer my king to obey when you knelt for the Dragon Queen."

Shaking, Jon twisted his features until he looked like he could kill her. "You killed her…"

"You may blame me if you wish." Sansa adjusted in her chair, grabbing the pup in her hands and standing at her full height. Looking down at him, Sansa sadly smiled. "Somewhere deep within you, you know you killed her to clear your own conscience."

Jon shook, eyes burning. Words swirled around him them, words she comprehended. Things between them would never be the same. Sansa knew that now.

"Perhaps we should survey other topics to discuss." Brienne cleared her throat.

"You think you're so clever. You know nothing." Before Jon released the moisture pooling at his eyes, he exhaled and walked away from Sansa.

She didn't look back. Only forward.

Sansa passively sat back down, looking down at the pup licking her hand. Swallowing, she heard Tormund swiftly follow after Jon. A small peace comforted her. At least he wasn't completely alone in his grief. The pup nipped at her hand, and she jumped, gasping and brushing the mutt off her lap. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Have you settled on a name?" Tyrion asked.

Sansa jumped, not knowing when he'd began occupying the seat to her left. Restoring her calm expression, she lifted her mouth. "I think Winter would do, given that he's as much trouble as this winter has been." The pup clumsily trotted over to Tyrion's feet, which dangled off the chair. Rising to his hind legs, he swatted at Tyrion's shoes. "He seems to like you."

Tyrion smirked, the fire highlighting wild mischief in his features. "We've certainly settled our differences."

Sansa's brows twitched together. "What does that mean?"

"Well," he started, sighing. "When we first arrived, he wouldn't let me near you. We feasted on the bear you killed, and I snuck him a few bites. Since then, he doesn't seem to mind my presence."

Sansa laughed. Though the sound was quiet, the echo carried it all over the room. Tyrion's smirk grew, more a large smile now. Sansa bit her lip, which caught his attention.

"Brienne," Bran said.

Sansa inhaled, eyes flying to Bran, who looked at Brienne looking at Tyrion curiously. "Your Grace?" Brienne focused on her king.

"You are relieved of your duties for the night. You are tired. Go get some rest." Bran nodded to her. Brienne stood and walked toward him, bowing. "Send someone to fetch me in a few minutes."

"Yes, Your Grace."

When Brienne left, she closed the doors. Bran turned his head. "Sansa, I'm going to go back to King's Landing in two day's time."

"I shall miss you."

"I'm going to bring my people home with me," he explained.

Sansa fought the urge to look at Tyrion. "As I would expect."

"Except my Hand."

Tyrion adjusted in his chair. "Your Grace?"

Sansa softly chuckled, the strained sound not matching with her peaceful expression. "He's your Hand. Not mine."

"Jon is right, Sansa. The Dothraki are dangerous. With your focus set on repairs, I have a personal interest to ensure your safety. Think of Tyrion as my diplomatic voice in the north to call on at your personal disposal."

"Your Grace, I must, again, advise against this. You made agreements with the Unsullied."

Bran looked to Tyrion. "I made agreements with the Unsullied _and_ the Dothraki, who left behind a substantial portion of their people to wreak havoc on our wounded realm and our infant neighbor."

"Bran, I will be fine."

The king ignored her. "Tyrion, my order is plain. You're not to return to King's Landing until the remaining four moons have passed of my original agreement with the north." Shifting his attention to Sansa, he nodded. "If he displeases you, please point him to the closest inn for him to stay at his personal expense."

Swallowing, Sansa nodded, eyes sliding toward Tyrion before she could stop herself.

The doors opened. Bran glanced at the fire. "Time for my leave."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The next morning, Brienne entered her room, helped her replace her bandages and redress, which was something Sansa was unable to do alone. Any movement encouraged the most pain, now that she'd managed to live with the wounds on her chest. Her body would take weeks to heal, but scars she'd still not had the courage to inventory would remain.

Just like Ramsay's destruction.

Swallowing her water, Sansa slowly rose to move to the window. The white world beyond her room was vast, empty, and barren; yet, daylight highlighted the horizon, empowering her heart to rest for a moment.

"Your Grace," Brienne spoke behind her.

Sansa turned. "Yes?"

"Forgive my lack of decorum. I served you and was loyal to you, so I pray that's enough for me to speak my mind."

"Of course."

"Don't let the Lord Hand sway you."

Sansa recovered from her surprise quickly, shaking her head and offering the knight a passive smile. "Tyrion is a great man."

Brienne closed the distance between them, towering over her. Grasping Sansa's hand between hers, the knight searched the queen's. "I beg you see reason." She swallowed. "He's a Lannister."

Sansa's heart broke for Brienne, who only wanted to protect her. Sansa would always respect this woman. Sansa broke her façade and trembled, allowing her sadness to brew in her eyes. "Brienne," she whispered. Shaking her head, Sansa exhaled. "I respect you so much. I mean not to hurt you when I tell you that he's not Jaime."

Brienne lowered her head, posture sinking. "I just want you to be careful." Brienne cleared her throat. "I could not bear a world where you do not find happiness. Not after everything you've endured."

Sansa's lips trembled. Words were no longer needed, so she only nodded.

Brienne disengaged and turned back, looking at a tray she'd brought. "I only meant to drop it by for you. Sorry to have disturbed, Your Grace." The moment Brienne began to walk to leave, Tyrion emerged at the door. He stepped in the room, moving out of the way, so she could pass. Brienne halted for a second when she reached him. If she wanted to say something, she thought better of it.

"Brienne?" The knight turned as she reached the threshold. Sansa felt her cheeks warm, so she lowered her eyes to her hands. "I do not wish to be disturbed. Please close the door."

After a moment, the door closed. Tyrion cleared his throat, choosing to remain far away from her. "What are you doing?"

"Lock the door." Sansa looked over to him, brushing her hair away from her face. Heat burned her face.

Tyrion stayed still. "Not until I insist knowing what you expect will happen if I do."

Sansa wished Arya was here. Before she departed, Arya had disclosed she'd lain with Gendry before the Long Night. Shivering, Sansa cursed her nerves. It sounded silly: that she was anxious. Years had passed since the last time she'd felt safe since someone last embraced her in comfort.

"Sansa?"

"I just want to be held."

Tyrion exhaled, chuckling to himself. "As you wish," he said, turning the door's lock. Turning, he leaned against the door, staring at her. "Sansa, I don't want you to feel pressured to rush anything."

"Tyrion," Sansa whispered, gripping her robe's sleeve, the fabric spilling between her fingers. "I think the last time I felt wholly safe was before I left for King's Landing those years ago." The blush coloring her cheeks wouldn't ebb. Self-consciously, she rubbed her cheek with her hand. "I want to remember what it feels like."

Tyrion eyed Winter, who slept next to the fire on a pile of torn blanket pieces. "I'm surprised he isn't at your side."

"He's suffocating at best."

"You'd do well to appreciate a good companion loyal to you." Tyrion moved closer to her, eyes on his joined hands. "Are you asking me into your bed, Sansa?"

Easing herself down back into the warmth of the pelts, she stared at him. "There are other things a bed is meant for besides…that."

"And you're volunteering to demonstrate that?" He tilted his head up, taking her in.

"If it pleases you," Sansa whispered. Straightening her shoulders, she willed for enough strength to say, "Eagerly."

Littlefinger had taught her how to puncture a man's defenses. Flirting was a skill at one point she'd taken advantage of with him. Cutting him down by exploiting his weakness for her had thrilled her, emboldened her, to strike back at him…after everything he put her through. Sansa was quickly learning that flirting without the intention of dominance made her stomach shake. She easily identified precisely how she felt while flirting with whom she loved: uncharted and vast.

It was easy to feel lost in her efforts.

Tyrion rounded the bed, relieving himself of his pelt on a chair before resting his hands on her mattress. "Don't analyze," he whispered. Mounting the bed, he sat back on his feet several paces from her. "Let it be just us in this bed."

"I was just thinking of…" Sansa shook her head. "No."

Tyrion crawled closer to her, stopping short of her reach. "Now, Sansa…you said you wanted honesty."

"Littlefinger…claimed to love me." Sansa bit her trembling lip, watching his expression falter. "There were times I had to use my beauty against him, Tyrion. Times I had to manipulate him with flirting…I might have been good at it…before…"

Tyrion continued, finishing his pursuit of her at the center of her bed. "Sansa, let it be just us in this bed." Raising his hand, he searched her eyes when he stopped it from touching. She nodded, and he cupped her jaw, thumb lightly stroking her. "How do I make you feel? Now, in this moment."

Dropping her attention to his mouth, Sansa tried stifling the shiver whispering across her bones. She wanted to let go, but she was not ready. "Tyrion, I…"

He replaced his touch with his mouth, brushing light kisses along her jaw, earning a stiff gasp from her throat. He tickled his nose against her ear until he found her lobe between his teeth, teasing the flesh there.

Sansa closed her eyes, unwilling to allow this feeling to overpower her for much longer. He made no attempt to strip her, nor did he touch her anywhere save for holding the opposite side of her neck.

Tyrion moved, so he cradled her head in his arms. Lowering her slowly back onto the bed, Sansa flinched. The pain on her back still bothered her as much as she willed it away. When he held her underneath him, he lifted his head from her ear, lips twitching. "Let me say it."

Sansa gasped, thankful. She wasn't sure if she could voice it if she tried. She nodded. She lowered her eyes, but he caught her chin. Hesitantly, she looked at him.

Tyrion's brows stretched downward as his smile widened. "I see trepidation," he whispered. Tilting his head to the side, he stroked her with his thumb. "And a furious temptation." He moved his hand from her face to the spot he'd sucked over four moons ago. "Pleasure…" Tyrion continued, holding his eyes steady as he surveyed hers. "Refuge."

Sansa nodded. "Yes," she panted, lungs heavy and breath hot.

Tyrion lowered his head to hers as he pulled the blanket over him. He settled in on his back, waiting for her take the position she preferred.

Sansa nuzzled him until she found the space between his cheek and shoulder. A small piece of his neck exposed itself to her. She didn't know where the thought came from, but she was compelled to test it. She leaned her head back, tickling the crook of his neck with her nose until her lips brushed against the skin. Exhaling, she closed her eyes and reached across his chest, grasping the opposite side of his face and pulling it toward her.

Tyrion froze. "Sansa…" He moaned, chest caving in as he exhaled loudly. "Gods, don't do that again."

"I'm sorry…" It didn't feel good to him. What had she been thinking? She started to pull away, but he stopped her. "Let go…" Her face heated more than it ever had. He couldn't see her embarrassment, so she pulled away from him, looking in the opposite direction.

"Sansa, stop," Tyrion pleaded. He held her where she was. "Stop moving, or your wounds will open." Sansa complied, but she didn't turn to face him. "Sansa, look at me."

"No."

"Look at me."

Sansa closed her eyes, tucking her chin underneath her shoulder. "No…"

"Stop thinking and look at me." She felt him take the ends of her hair into his hand. He reached out and pressed his hand against her back, expertly avoiding the scratch wounds. He _had_ seen them.

"Tyrion, I didn't mean it." Pressing her face into the pillow, she concealed a sigh from him. Swallowing, she spoke, but the fluffy object muffled her words. "It was an accident."

His hands wrapped underneath her, around her throat, until he found the opposite side of her face. Gently, he tugged her attention to him. She resisted, but his strength surprised her. "Look at me!"

Sansa gasped, lifting her head from the bed and flinching as she looked at him.

He swallowed and shook his head. "Don't lie to me." A tear fell from her eyes, and she held still. "I only said that because your lips on me are intoxicating. I wanted to warn you to stop because I don't trust myself with you." Tyrion moved his attention down his body. "That's a problem…"

Sansa chanced a look down, noticing a swell in the blankets where the apex of his thighs should meet. She knew at once that her skin matched the color of her hair. Opening her mouth, she hoped she'd naturally say anything. No words came.

Tyrion's chest heaved, his breath warming her neck as she peered down at him. "Sansa, we will figure all of this out," he said, the words a vow. He brushed the tip of her chin, claiming her bright eyes. Shaking his head, he whispered, exhaling, "Just not today."

Winter yipped, breaking her focus. Sansa looked to Tyrion tentatively. "I'm sorry…I wish I could be different."

"When it's different, Sansa, she isn't you," Tyrion murmured, brushing her hair back. "It has to be you."

Sansa nodded, settling back into the crook of his neck. When Tyrion reached over his chest for her hand, she willingly accepted his touch. Despite their difference in stature, this man perfectly fit the bend of her waist and curve of her hip. He bent the knee opposite of her and brushed through her hair with his free hand. Sansa tucked her legs into her tight, her mid-thigh touching his outstretched leg.

"Your bed is much more comfortable than mine."

Sansa chuckled. "It's a shame we can't share a bed."

"We're sharing a bed now."

"The Dragon Queen laid with her nephew. Cersei was swelling with her twin brother's child. Again," Sansa bit her lip. "If all people accuse me of is sharing a bed with a man, my conscience is clean."

"You'd be surprised at how shocked people will be when they know it's a dwarf warming your bed." Tyrion sighed. "For some reason, my physical appearance was always a worse sin than Jaime and Cersei together." He moved his thumb on her hand. "My father hated me for it. Simply because of an accident of birth."

"Was that before or after the beard?"

Laughter lightened the mood dwelling between them. Tyrion looked down at her. "Before, when I was making my escape from King's Landing after the trial."

"You're very handsome, Tyrion." Sansa could feel his disproval, so she rushed to say, "I've never had a choice with men. I've always been a hostage. Tyrion, I chose you."

When she glanced up at him, she wanted to fix the broken expression on his face. Glassy eyes looked to the window until he evened his breathing. Meeting her hues, he lifted her wrist to his lips, spoiling her flesh with numerous pecks before he placed her hand over his heart. "You make me feel invincible."

Closing her eyes, she inhaled his scent, unable to place it.

"Sleep, Sansa."

No other place in the world did she feel so safe than in his arms.

* * *

**[A/N] **I loved writing this chapter! I love where it ends. **Please review!**


	8. Eight

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

* * *

_ ** Chapter 8 ** _ _ **:** _

_Sansa_

* * *

Patting the tears under her eyes, Sansa absently stared at her father in the crypts. Midday, she and Winter found solace in the only place she was surrounded by her family. She was capable of a great many mistakes, and seeing the weight of poor decisions was an important reminder from now and again.

The hatred for the dead was something she often prayed for forgiveness. The genuine guilt was new. The Dragon Queen had complicated her home, destroyed her family, and killed a great number of those whom she loved. Theon crept into her thoughts—not for the first time that week. Whatever atrocities he'd committed, Theon Greyjoy died a hero in her eyes.

The last thing she'd ever told him was that she'd see him soon. Sansa never said goodbye until she torched his cold corpse. They were broken—together somewhat whole. While she'd been safe in the crypts, he'd faced the Night King defending Bran. He'd died, and she hadn't.

Sansa had loved him, too. Unlike her feelings for Tyrion, what connected her to Theon had been all the emotion she'd destroyed with Ramsay. He should have been down here: amongst her family. That was what he was—her brother by bond, if not by blood.

Theon would be her Hand if it weren't for his death. While she couldn't blame Daenerys for losing him, it might have turned out differently for him. The worst part was the not knowing.

Sansa believed she would see Theon again…maybe not so soon.

Hate had become commonplace for her over the last several years. Arya used to be devout to revenge. Sansa's source of strength was her hatred. The crown perched atop her loose hair carried a weight on her soul. Her people needed her to think clearly. She had to be who they needed.

Distance from Tyrion had done her head some good. She loved him. The honesty they vowed to share hadn't yet required her proclamation thus far, though she knew it was only a matter of time. If she'd truly and wholly forgiven him, wouldn't it be easier to press her lips against his?

Although her soul was broken, Sansa didn't know if seeking his comfort was for the best. He would be here for four moons, so his proximity was inevitable, but she prayed for a clearer head. Passion had been something she'd dreamt of since her childhood: of a perfect prince on the whitest horse holding the shiniest sword riding toward her.

Thoughts racing in her mind, she looked at her father's grave. "What do I do, father?"

Her lip trembled. Being with Tyrion was so easy when she blotched out everything keeping them apart. He was Bran's Hand. Tyrion hated the north. They'd already been married. While that's what she pictured when she saw him, would that ever be possible? Winterfell wouldn't accept a Lannister as a king or consort so easily, if ever.

Sansa had abandoned the idea of passion long ago, had buried it even. She was practical, rational. A strategist, Sansa believed that duty was something that was synonymous with love. Sansa's only love for the better part of recent memory had been her people.

"Your Grace," Davon whispered. "You sent for me?"

Looking to her side, a placid smile emerged on its own. "Yes, I need you to see that this letter gets into the right hands."

"Is that all Your Grace?"

Nodding, Sansa touched his shoulder affectionately. "You may go." The queen watched him as he left, passing a thick, black figure before proceeding up the stairs. She smoothed out her expression when she saw it was Jon. "Hello."

Jon stopped where he was, eyes following Davon up the stairs until they were alone. He made no move toward her. "You shouldn't be down here alone when you have a bounty on your life, Your Grace."

"We are alone, Jon."

"Sansa…"

"Will it always be like this, brother?" Sansa joined her hands behind her and walked several paces toward him.

His dark gaze slipped away. "Only Bran can know the future."

"I don't want you to hate me."

"I could never hate you," Jon quipped, meeting her distant gaze. "You don't have to call me your brother." He shook his head. "You know who I am."

Sansa swallowed. "I don't care who you are. If you choose to identify as Targaryen, Stark, or Snow, you're still my brother." She evened out her erratic heartbeat with a deep sigh. "Winterfell will always be your home."

"Do you mean that?"

Sansa could only nod.

"Sansa, I don't know who I am anymore." The dirt on the ground crunched under his boots as he stepped closer to her. "I know I've made many mistakes…"

"So have I…"

They shared a look until he nodded. "I tried to ride north of the wall and stay," he said, mouth flattening as he scratched his head. "North of the north no longer makes sense to me."

"Why did you leave?"

Jon reached for her gloved hand, clasping it between his thicker gloves. "I had a dream you would die. Bran won't confirm if it was his doing or not." He dipped his brows as a smile broke his frown, quietly laughing. "I'm still not sure what he does, to be honest…"

Sansa laughed, bending her fingers in his grasp. "It's best you do not question him on it." Her father's grave ensnared her focus briefly until a brighter smile broke. Looking to her brother, she said, "Jon, you and the Wildlings you brought with you may stay. You are most welcome, even if the Queen of Winterfell was an ass to you."

Jon laughed. "You're cursing now?"

Sansa smiled, shaking her head. "Don't get used to it. I'm not sure I like its corrupt texture passing my lips." She tilted her head and lifted a hand to his hair, moving it back. "I only wanted to hear you laugh."

"I am sorry, Sansa." Jon glanced at her father's grave. "For so much."

Sansa cupped his cheek, nodding. "I owe you a great deal, Jon. You alone saved the North and Six Kingdoms. I'm not sure how else we could have stood a chance without her." Sighing, she whispered, "I allowed my jealousy to rule my actions." She made sure he gave her his undivided attention. "I will never make that mistake again."

"Jealousy?"

"At the time, we'd barely found a way to get along. You gave me purpose," she admitted. "And hope."

"Hope? For what?" He narrowed his eyes.

"For men."

Jon kissed her forehead. "Sansa."

Closing her eyes, she smiled. "Let's leave the past where it belongs. It's easy to see the mistakes after a war's end and blame someone for those mistakes."

His brows sank, and his smile fell.

Sansa lifted the flap of a bag she wore across her torso, procuring a metal object. "It would bring me a great deal of happiness and honor if you would accept the role of my Hand."

Jon's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. He looked from her to the Hand's pin she'd had made weeks ago. "Sansa, I know not the first thing of being a Hand."

"Then don't be my Hand. Join my Small Council as my Master of War and Commander of the Queensguard if you wish."

"You're serious?"

Sansa held the pin against her abdomen, nodding. "We're stronger…together."

Jon stepped away from her, and Sansa narrowed her eyes. "Yesterday we slaughtered each other."

"My head's been all over the place recently, but I'm clear now. It's easy to give into hate, allow it to fester and to take over," she replied. "I offer you a place in a world where we don't have to be alone, Jon. We're all we have left." She sighed. "I know this won't cure the fractures separating us, but I hope it could build a bridge—be a start."

Jon blinked several times, not moving a muscle for a moment. She thought he would refuse until he grasped his sword and knelt down before her. "You're Grace…" His shoulders heaved. "My sword is yours. My life is your shield."

Sansa shook, dropping to her knees and clutching his face in her hands. "Thank you…" She enveloped him on her arms, and they cried together in the crypt—the only place in the whole world where family surrounded them.

— — — — — — — — — — —

The metal Hand pin passed from Sansa's right hand to the other. Sighing, she opened a drawer and gently rested it inside. There was much to still decide, but Sansa knew her Hand should be family or someone she wholly trusted. The problem with both of those options was that Jon wasn't the right fit and was the last of her available kin. Those she trusted had died or served a king in another realm.

A new day, a new set of problems…

A knock at her private chamber's door prompted her to slide the drawer shut. "You may enter."

"Your Grace!" Sansa stood. A girl not many years younger than she stood. She had black hair and stark green eyes. Her nose was too big, but it strangely complimented her otherwise average looks.

"Are you all that's left?"

The girl circled her thumbs to her index fingers and joined them at her waist, elbows bending as she fidgeted before her queen. "Yes, ma'am—I-I mean, Your Grace!"

"Your name?"

"Lysa Blackbriar…I'm a very distant relation to the late Lady Mormont."

Sansa's brows drew together. "I'm not familiar with your family."

The girl stepped closer to her. "I did specify…_very distant_, I said."

"Do you have any questions?"

Lysa's features crumbled. "I know I was told I wouldn't be able to see my family very often…if at all…but could I still write? I simply adore my father, you see!"

Sansa offered her a single nod. "Of course."

Lysa beamed. "Great!"

"If this is to work, I have to trust you. I've had companions who…well, they didn't end very well." Sansa lifted her nose. "Swear before me that what you witness in this room or in my presence will remain private."

"Yes, Your Grace!"

Sansa winced. This girl was quite loud. She wasn't from a traditional highborn family, but she could always aid in that regard. "My trust is earned. You'll do well and remember that."

Sansa turned around to the mirror, biting her lip and looking away. Now was not the time to break her focus. The queen shifted her gaze in the mirror, watching Lysa. "There is one thing you will do."

"All you have to do is ask!"

Sansa turned. "Control your voice and enthusiasm. It's been a while since I last was around someone so…cheery."

Lysa pressed her lips together, only nodding.

"Good. You can begin your duties now by helping me dress in something more…anything." The robes were not proper for a queen. The pain didn't limit her as much now. She'd acclimated to the bulk of it. Normal dresses would be harder to move in, but they were better for someone of her rank. Nodding, she motioned for her new companion to help her into the dress she'd already chosen.

— — — — — — — — — — —

Sansa inhaled the crisp, frosty air outside the castle, thankfully rid of Lysa for now. The dress she wore was a simple gown the color of running water under a layer of ice cropped at her ankles. Her sleeves weren't flashy, nor were her pelts. A dragging dress worked in King's Landing but not along the snow.

Turning, Sansa inspected the progress of the repairs with Winter in tow. The blasted beast moved when she breathed. It would take several moons…likely many years before it was adequately restored.

Winterfell would be home—in pieces or not.

"Your Grace," Tyrion greeted from behind.

Sansa looked down, careful to keep her crown from moving by maintaining her poised posture. "My Lord." A small smile warmed her otherwise neutral expression. "I was heading to the Godswood. Join me?"

"Of course."

Together, they walked in mostly silence. An occasional compliment to the repairs slipped his lips along the way. When they arrived, Sansa claimed the rock she favored and sat, waiting for him to do the same. Winter chased after a leave somewhere around the tree, leaving them alone.

"I heard you chose Jon to be your Master of War _and_ Commander of the Queensguard," Tyrion said. For once, she could not read his underlying message.

Sansa nodded.

"I saw him with several ladies…asking questions." Tyrion sighed, rubbing his hands together. "Chose your court companion…"

"She's very cheerful…much too happy to live in a place like this."

"All without including me…"

The wind dallied around them, making the leaves whisper. "You're not my Hand."

"No, but it's why I'm here…" Tyrion countered. "To help."

Sansa licked her lips, looking at the pure white snow for guidance on her wayward thoughts. "Tyrion, we need to talk."

Tyrion sighed. When she looked back at him, she watched as his shoulders sagged. "The words a man never wants to hear from a woman…" He met her gaze. "What inspired this much-needed chat?"

"The only day I've felt like a queen was the day they named me," she confessed. "Since then, I haven't worn this because I was helping with rebuilding alongside my people, or I was out killing bears."

"Sansa, I beg you…"

"I told you it would never work between us."

Tyrion rushed to claim her hands in his, eyes pleading. "My loyalties are no longer divided."

The leaves, the snow, and the tree…they offered no solace or comfort. Sansa reigned control over herself, cutting off the pain powering her heart. "It would be treason to swear your loyalty to the queen of a different realm, Tyrion."

"It would be the last time anyone could accuse me of it, Sansa." He reached for her face, and she stupidly allowed the contact. "Once given, I would carry my loyalty for you until my dying days."

"You're supposed to serve my brother, Tyrion," Sansa whispered, clutching his wrist.

"I was supposed to do plenty of things I chose to neglect." Tyrion shook his head and rested his head against hers. "Throw me away in a cell again, I care not."

"What did you advise Daenerys do with her lover overseas?"

Tyrion's hands shook against her, fingers repositioning on her to keep hold of her against the racket. Tears distorted his raging eyes. He did nothing to stop them from falling. "I'll not dignify that with a response."

The years of suffering and loss ignited within her. When her shoulders began to shake, she closed her eyes. "Because you're on the other side of the advice."

"I may not be worthy of a crown, but I cannot lose you…"

Sansa kissed him. "And I cannot settle for a lover…" The wind picked up, and the leaves almost sounded angry. "I'm a queen, Tyrion. A queen needs an heir, and I want a family. My people expect a husband for me…"

"We were married once."

Sansa wiped a tear before it fell too far down her cheek and placed a hand on his heart. "You're a Lannister, my people would never accept you with me."

"I helped secure peace, named Bran as _king_…" Tyrion's voice broke. "I know how to help run a realm. I would work until the end of my days fighting to restore Winterfell."

"If there's any chance for you, I cannot bear to take it from you." Bringing her gloved finger to his cheek, she wiped at his hot tears, hand lingering against him. "It's too late for me."

"Fuck it…" Tyrion reached over her shoulder and balled her hair into his fist, shoving his mouth against hers. His lips weren't gentle. They were desperate, hungry.

Sansa closed her eyes and moaned, reaching for his whatever clothes she could grab hold of. The wind stopped and flew toward her, sending her hair dancing. He pulled back but resealed his mouth on hers. Sansa gasped, opening her mouth, and his tongue invaded her with expert skill. Tears welled, and she pulled away and flung her eyes open. "Tyrion, I don't…" He met her gaze and crashed back into her. Mid-sob, Sansa's mouth opened for him again, but this time he took it slow, teasing his tongue below hers until he switched and brought it above. Slowly, she caught onto the technique

Sansa's heart flew in her chest, the force so powerful that she straightened her posture, matching his pressure and challenging him for dominance. Tyrion's eyes sagged close. Her fluttered shut, too. His tight grip on her hair eased, his hands moving to cradle the back of her head. Courage gathered in her heart, which flowed to her mind. Sansa lifted her hands to fan through his hair. She lost her breath, so she pulled away, inhaling quickly before he chased her mouth.

Tyrion's moans were loud. She feared she was louder, but she did her best to catalog that in her mind, wanting nothing more than more of what he offered her. He never moved his hands to an inappropriate spot on her body. He comforted her, encouraged her, by stroking the side of her face and lighting massaging the base of her head.

Crashing her chest into his, Sansa gasped, unused to the activity. It left her breathless. "Tyrion…"

"…I know." Together they matched the pace he'd set, their tongues thrashing more and more out of control. She felt his hands shake. "Gods, Sansa…" She peeked at him, seeing his brows dip.

Sansa didn't have the same stamina he'd built, so she broke for a reprieve, to catch her breath. Tyrion hunted her mouth until he found it again, pressing urgent kisses that melted something within her. Sansa was eager to continue, but someone cleared their throat.

Tyrion stopped his efforts and she froze. Her chest flattened against his as they struggled to breathe. She opened her eyes, seeing his still closed. She darted her eyes around, not moving away from where Tyrion held her.

"Leave us, Jon…"

"Get up, Tyr-"

Sansa rested her forehead against Tyrion's and moved her finger to his lower lip. Shaking her head slightly, Sansa closed her eyes but turned in Jon's direction. "Just go, Jon…We'll talk later."

Neither Sansa nor Tyrion moved. Together, they listened to Jon's fleeting footsteps. "He's going to kill me…" Sansa found his mouth again. He accommodated her with an intoxicated whimper.

Tyrion broke apart, sparing her one last, chaste kiss before parting from her. He shook against her. Eyes still shut, he pressed his lips on her cheek, on her nose, and on her chin. "That…is how you kiss someone properly." He swallowed and his chest erratically heaved.

Sansa's cheeks warmed. She brushed her nose against his cheek, mouth close to his ear. "I like your tongue."

Tyrion choked, recovering with an unexpected chuckle. "That bodes well for me."

Sansa's brows dipped. "Did I say something odd?"

"No…"

The wind was calm now. Sansa hadn't realized it had settled. Each breath they took was in unison, both gasping in the aftereffects of their passion. "What are going to do?"

"It's too late for me, too." Tyrion finally opened his eyes, smiling and gulping. "I can't willingly part from you. No more."

"I may have no choice…"

"You're the queen of a new kingdom."

Sansa searched his eyes. "I can't impose on my people."

Tyrion captured her lips. "I'm thinking…"

"It doesn't seem that way…"

"Trust me, I'm thinking about quite a lot right now…" Tyrion moved to gently bit her ear lobe.

Sansa moaned. "Be serious." She pulled away from him, looking at her hands. "If there's a way this could work, I want to know it now."

Tyrion shook his head. "I don't have an answer right now."

"Tyrion…"

"Sansa?"

Sansa calmed her body, breathing in and out a few times. "I want no part of blind love. We have to be reasonable, rationale."

Tyrion brushed the top of her hand, his touch almost unfelt. "We're two of the most clever people in Westeros."

"We both made a few mistakes due to severe lapses in judgment. You must always arm yourself with your wits."

Tyrion nodded. "I know."

"For now, don't come to my bed. Do not hope to inspire me with your passion."

"Sansa…"

"I will not lose sight of Winterfell. That is something I cannot afford."

Tyrion nodded. "What of us?"

Sansa lowered her hands and backed away. "Earn the love of my people, or I fear I will be right again."

"Sansa?"

"Yes, Tyrion?"

"Do you trust me?"

Sansa pressed her lips to his with gentle, temperate pressure. When she pulled away, she gulped. "Almost." With the last remaining flow of wind, the trees settled down as she stood up. "Come, Winter." The pup chased her slow pace until he walked beside her.

Tyrion knew his way around words. He could shower her with pretty phrases and stolen kisses, but until she could see it as solid as the crown she wore, Sansa steeled her heart for when she had to part with him. She prayed to the Seven they would guide her to the strength she would need.

* * *

**[A/N] **I'm sorry if there are parts of this story that you don't agree with perfectly. I've suffered many forms of depression in different seasons of my life. Sometimes you need someone so much, it's hard to reason with yourself or with reality. I tried depicting that with Sansa this chapter. Regarding Jon, you can't just magically stop being angry or blaming someone you're convinced was wrong, but you can forgive them. I hope you see that there is a journey for all of our characters at the edge of such a horrific war's end.

**Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9

_ **The Edge of War's End** _

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **I love the way this story is going. Thank you for all your kind words. I don't know when Tyrion's POV will return. This chapter was SUPPOSED to be it, but nope. Many of you are worried about the ending of this story. Don't be. I'm writing them a story I believe they deserve (imo). Enjoy.

* * *

_ ** Chapter 9 ** _ _ **:** _

_Sansa_

* * *

The large door slammed shut after she entered the room. Sansa jumped, tripping until a hand caught her by the elbow to steady her. "What was _that_?"

The urge to remind him her business wasn't his concern nearly ruptured her patience. It was his business—sort of. "Don't scare me like that again!"

"Sansa, I'm not bickering with you about this." Jon gently let her go and backed away. "I may not be your Hand, but since you call brother, you will listen to me."

"What's the problem with me kissing a man?"

Jon stalked toward her until he chased her backward. Sansa stumbled down into a chair behind her. "That was not just _a_ man! He's Tyrion Lannister! A _Lannister_!" Jon shoved a hand in his dark hair. "He's the Hand of the Dragon Queen you so admonished, the man who encouraged me to betray his queen and KILL said queen!"

"Tyrion is a good man, Jon."

Jon grabbed the sides of her face, the pressure increasing. For a moment, she thought he would snap her head in two. When she winced, he widened his eyes and eased his touch. "You're a queen, Sansa. He's highborn, but he's no good for a woman in the north. His family slaughtered our blood. His fucking sister put your wolf to death and tortured you with her son for years!"

"Enough, Jon…" Sansa moved out of his grasp, back turned. "No more!"

"Tyrion loved Dany, Sansa!" When she looked at him again, he looked down and battled with a sad sigh. "He loves _her_."

"I knew he did from the moment I saw him look at her." Sansa adjusted her posture, squaring her shoulders. "We've talked a lot about all this, Jon." Biting her lip, Sansa put her hand on his shoulder. "It's been handled."

Jon shoved her hand away. "You just don't handle feelings like love."

"His love was not a mirror of yours."

Opening his mouth, he glared at her. "Sansa, he isn't a good man. The last days of Dany's life could have turned out much different if his head had been on straight." When she shook her head and formed words on her mouth, he stopped her. "She was my aunt. That didn't seem to bother her, but it cut me deeply. I had conflict, and I could have handled that much better, but Sansa…" Jon softened his eyes. "A man like him in love is a death sentence. He's whored around for Gods know how long, and he's been a close ally to every last enemy of the Starks."

Sansa looked away, but he caught her cheeks, brushing his thumbs on her affectionately. "Jon, he was good to me in King's Landing. He never touched me," she explained. Shaking her head and searching his eyes, she continued. "Tyrion showed me the only kindness I knew whilst I was there. I didn't recognize it then, but it's clear to me now that his marriage offered me safety and protection."

"Is protection what you're worried about?" Jon smiled, believing he'd solved a lost riddle. "I'm here now. You don't have to be afraid anymore."

Sansa closed her eyes, desperate to find patience. "Jon, I lived every single day in King's Landing as if it were to be my last. My life fell into the mercy of Joffrey's cruel hands. The only true peace I've known since leaving Winterfell is when he's with me."

"Sansa…"

"Please listen to me!" With a reluctant nod, Jon crossed his arms over his chest. Sansa sighed. "Tyrion is the reason I'm alive. I do my best, Jon, but I know I'm no warrior or assassin. I have no instincts to count on in battle; instead, my talents will always be political by nature. Tyrion is a man who places a priceless value on his own life, yet he always protects me when it most counts. He makes mistakes, but so have I. Through cruelty of birth and mockery of the masses, he's dedicated his life to knowledge. Although a slow learner, I've learned how to play the political game and gamble against sleuth and scrutiny."

Jon sat down on the table, resting his wrist on his sword. "I don't like this, Sansa…"

Joining her hands behind her, Sansa fixed a neutral, easy smile on her mouth. "What does love feel like for you?"

He drew his head back, eyes narrowing. "Sansa."

"Just answer the question."

Jon chuckled, his features heavy. "If I had to put it into words, I'd say it's unexpected, grounding, and fulfilling when it's good love. When it's a bad love, it's poisonous mixed with a taste of pleasure you'll never know without that person. You don't know it's a bad love until your conscience speaks to you…by then, it's too late to save."

Sansa sat beside him on the table, bringing her hands to her lap. "I was a petulant child, but Joffrey was the bad love of my life," she whispered. "Do you want to know what good love is like for me?"

Jon twisted to face her. "Yes."

"It's frightening, yet somehow safe all at once." Sansa looked down at her hands. "Tyrion frightens me. He makes me feel safe."

Jon grabbed her hand, bringing the back of her gloved hand to his lips and sighing. "Have you both…"

Sansa's cheeks warmed. "Tyrion has always been kind to me."

"That's not an answer, Sansa." Jon laughed.

"No, alright?" She looked at him. "For a moment, I thought I could do it…have a lover. Gods know all the queens I've known have had them…"

Jon tapped his shoulder against hers. "What changed?"

"It's not who I am," Sansa admitted. Swallowing, she brushed her hair back behind her ears. "I've never talked to you about this stuff."

"You've talked about this before? With whom?"

Sansa's eyes grew and lips sealed to a flat line. "I can't tell you that."

"Who was it? Someone in King's Landing?"

"If I tell you, you'll be angry again."

Drawing his head back, Jon huffed. "Out with it!"

"Arya!"

"That's not funny, Sansa…"

"Believe me or don't. She wasn't the least bit helpful, anyway." Shaking her head. "This isn't about Arya…" Looking at him shyly, Sansa bit her lip. "I thought things like passion were gone for good for me. Tyrion showed me that they're a part of who I am, but I'm a queen. I must honor my people."

Jon was tense beside her, but after a few seconds, he relaxed, sighing. "And how will you do that? By kissing him openly for all the world to see?" She remained quiet. He lifted his eyes to her, expelling the air from his lungs slowly. He dragged his hand over his face, growling. "Does he make you happy, Sansa?" Jon stood from the table and neared her. "After everything, you deserve to be happy."

"I know I'm happiest when I'm with him." Sansa swallowed, peering down at the floor. "We have yet to explore all we might be."

Jon touched her face and grasped her arm, squeezing a little until he wrapped his arms around her, careful of her wounds. "I don't like this, but I'm willing to give it a chance for your sake."

"This might be the worst idea I've ever had," Sansa stared at a goblet on the table behind him. Eventually, she enveloped him and turned her face in his shoulder. "As queen, I must always do what is best for my people."

"Duty is the death of love." Jon sniffled against her hair. Quietly, he broke down against her.

Sansa tightened her arms around him. "No, Jon. Duty should be because of love."

"And if two loves are at odds?"

Sansa brushed through his hair at the base of his head. "You do what is right, what your heart tells you is good."

— — — — — — — — — — —

The sound of fingers tapping on a wooden table filled Sansa's office. Pinching her lips together, posture stiff, and jaw clenching, Sansa closed her eyes, praying to the Seven for patience.

The small round table clearly wasn't enough space for the two men she sat between. Of the four chairs, Sansa occupied the one closest to her desk. To her right, her brother sat, arms crossed and mouth downturned. Cold eyes bore into the man his opposite. Tyrion stared at his goblet, slouching and supporting his head on the chair's arm with his balled fist.

"Do you both plan on acting like this the whole time?" Sansa raised her brow, eyes darting between them. Lips pursed, Sansa scowled, dipping her shaking head in her hands. Groaning, she straightened and slammed her hands against the table, staring at its center. "We don't have time for this. Until my Small Council is formed, we're the only acting voices in Winterfell. We must learn to work together."

Jon's eyes hardened just as he began complaining, while Tyrion started to defend himself. Sansa heard none of what they said due to both drowning the other out. Slamming her hands to her ears, she shouted and grabbed her hair. "While we're in this room you're not my brother and…guest. You're my Master of War and Commander of the Queensguard and an advisor." Sansa looked between them. "Okay?"

Jon lowered his chin, leaning back in his chair. Tyrion sipped his wine. Eventually, both muttered something she interpreted as an agreement.

"Good," Sansa stood and moved to her desk, grabbing a stack of opened letters. "I've been quite busy establishing eyes all around Winterfell—both to hear word of Dothraki whereabouts and to learn more of the political challenges I'll be facing."

"You're running a spy network?" Jon sighed, but he sounded impressed. "How'd you manage?"

Sansa tried stopping her eyes from moving to Tyrion, but his gaze was already settled on her. Sharing a brief look, she glanced at Jon. "When the Dragon Queen was here, I paid attention to many things. Most importantly, I discovered The Spider's web. Once news of Varys' reached us, I offered the few connections I'd found shelter and safety. It's quite small, but it's growing. I've learned a great deal."

Jon sank in his seat. Tyrion downed the rest of the cup, setting it on the table afterward. Jon cleared his throat, shaking his head for clarity. "What exactly have you learned?"

"I've found hidden routes away from the main roads to take my people to safer locations until this Dothraki nonsense ebbs via old trade routes."

Tyrion chuckled. "You thought of that?"

"A bit of light reading." Sansa smiled. "Castle Black and the New Lord of The Dreadfort have graciously volunteered to take in a majority of those who live Winter Town and around Winterfell. I know a number of people will refuse to leave their homes, but if we have the chance to spare even a few lives, I want to take every measure of safety possible."

"Traveling halfway across the north is hardly safe." Jon rested his elbows on the table, staring at her.

"That is why everyone shall be offered the choice to go or not. We have enough supplies and food to get two-thirds settled and taken care of for three months. By reopening the trade routes, we'll be able to share resources more easily. There are those in the North less fortunate than we are."

"Two birds," Tyrion quietly said. "One proverbial stone." Lifting his brows, he reached for his cup. Bringing it to his lips, he quickly realized there was nothing left.

"Caravans draw too much attention, so it will be at a steady pace." Sansa looked at Jon. "Can you handle bolstering Winterfell's defenses and arranging escorts for the trade convoys?"

Nodding, her brother reached across the table to take her hand. "I'll handle everything."

Sansa pulled away and looked to Tyrion. "Do we have any other options?"

"Unless you have any other resource in abundance you're willing to part with…" Tyrion sat up, reviewing a few papers scattered before him. "I see no way around borrowing."

A knock at the door broke Sansa's focus. "You may enter." When the door opened, Lysa poked her head in. "Is something the matter?"

"Of course not, Your Grace…well, now that you mention it…" Lysa pressed her lips flat. "Winter is awfully rowdy this morning. I was hoping it would be okay to drop him off with his mother."

Sansa's face tensed. "I'm the mother of nothing," she snapped. Dropping her eyes at the young direwolf now nearing the size of a grown wolf. Winter rushed passed her and toward Sansa. "No." Winter whined, but she just sighed, pointing to the corner of the room by the window. He decided to obey her silent command. She looked to Lysa. "You may go."

Lysa balked, pulling in the rascal and bowing. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." The door closed.

"Don't you think that was a bit rude, Sansa?" Jon sighed. "I thought I did well in choosing her."

"You did your best." Sansa looked to Winter, whose eyes were on her. She closed her eyes and rolled her head back, stretching the muscles in her shoulders. When she rolled to the left slightly too far, her shoulder stung. She sucked in air through clenched teeth. Leaning her head back against the chair, she opened her eyes. "I cannot wait for these wounds to heal…"

"It could have gone much worse." Jon moved his arms on the table.

Sansa regarded him. "Jon, will you leave us to wrap things up?"

Narrowing his eyes on Tyrion, he sighed. "Is that a wise idea?"

"We'll find out."

Jon stood, turning to her. "As you command, Your Grace."

When the door closed, Sansa deflated against the chair, inhaling slowly. Shoulder sagging once more, she leaned forward. "There is another way, albeit a short-term option."

Tyrion sat back in his chair, letting the papers clumsily scatter back in front of him. "Go on."

"I've tasked Lysa was gathering up bits and baubles around the castle. Some of my mother's things."

Straightening his posture, Tyrion closed his eyes and pinched his brows. "You mean to part with your late mother's possessions?"

"That's why I sent Jon away. He wouldn't approve, but I refuse to seek the aid of the Six Kingdoms so quickly, Tyrion."

"I wish you were consistent on your stance with the Six Kingdoms. You accept His Grace's Hand for guidance, yet you reject the possibility of other aid."

Sansa set her hand on the table, her outer finger sliding over the top of his. When he looked at her, she swallowed. "One man isn't the whole realm."

"Your people won't see it that way."

"Why can't I sell my things, Tyrion?"

Capturing her hand in his, he said, "Because they're your family's relics."

"They're just things. I'll always have them in my head."

"You say that now…Sansa," Tyrion paused, resting his blank, distant stare on their joined hands. "I'd give anything to have had a day with my mother."

"I wish it had been different for you."

Tyrion locked onto her. "Don't say that." Reaching for his cup, he sipped again. When nothing came, he dropped it to the floor with an eye roll. Swallowing, Tyrion evened his racing breathing with a sigh. "Everything I've endured…I'd do it all over again."

Sansa opened her mouth, sure she knew what words to say that would ease him; however, nothing came to mind. She reached for him with her other hand, but he caught it and brought the back of her hand to his lips. "Again and again, until I reached you." Pulling her hand to the side of his face, he nuzzled his nose against her sleeve until it rose, exposing a small part of her wrist. Pressing his lips on the cold flesh, Tyrion closed his eyes and repeated the action twice more. His breath quickened, his lips brushing her flesh until he surprised her with a gentle nip. "Back at this very moment."

"Tyrion," Sansa gasped.

When she leaned over, he lowered her hand, his hands shaking. "To these small fragments of time we have together. Sansa, please don't readily spare yourself from her things."

Sansa sobered, head shaking. Tugging on her arm, she scrunched her nose. He didn't let her go. Gulping, she parted her lips. "Why does this mean so much to you?"

Tyrion brought her fingers to his lips. "The same reason why you don't want to love Winter. The past."

"Lady has nothing to do with Winter." Sansa hauled her hands away from him and bolted out of her chair and turning her back to him. The direwolf in the corner of the room spooked, quickly righting himself with a whine. "Leave me."

"I won't."

Tears stung her eyes. Buried wounds beckoned to be broken if not to flood the world with her blood. Chest burning and heaving, she looked over her shoulder down her nose at him. "I never wanted him to follow me!"

Tyrion flattened his hands, approaching her as if she were one of Daenerys' dragons. "Then why did you save him?"

"I had no reason."

"Sansa, you nearly died for the pup." Tyrion swallowed. "He's lain at your side since you were on the healer's bed. You've barely shown him the affection he's starving for." She shook her head, sealing her eyes to the floor in front of her. His footsteps stopped. He was so close. "You want a taste of what used to be. Admit it…"

Sansa whipped around, her red locks flying after her until it pounded against her shoulder and chest, quickly cascading and swinging. "Is that the reason why you patroned the whore house for weeks after what we shared? To have a taste of what used to be?" Sansa contained the tears that begged to be set loose, though her chin trembled.

"Shout at me, hit me, hurt me…Sansa, I care not what you do with me." Tyrion moved his shoulders back, sucking in his cheeks and dragging his tongue against his lower teeth. Eyes twitching, he shrugged. "You can't keep everyone at arm's length. In order to find love, you must first keep your heart open."

He brought her to her knees. She grabbed him by his collar, pulling him in as she battled for control. Flashes of every soul she'd ever loved danced across her mind. Distant words painted her thoughts. "I can't remember what her voice sounded like. Not any of them." A thick, hot tear burst from her glassy eyes. "All your sister had to do was not bed her brother. Joffrey would have never existed, and my family would still be here if it weren't for yours! Lady wouldn't have…maybe she would have grown like Ghost. She could have saved me from…" Her hands trembled. Her chest convulsed as she gasped for breath. She hyperventilated, clutching at her chest. Coughing, she looked down at the floor, tears splattering against the stone surface like rain. She crossed her hands over her chest and grasped either arm, leaning forward and rocking back and forth as she sobbed uncontrollably.

The world slipped away, suddenly plucked from reality and cast back in time—back when her father was beheaded before her eyes, back when Joffrey tormented her at every chance and hearing about her mother and family being killed off one by one. The fear she'd felt walking arm in arm with Joffrey up to Tyrion at their wedding broke her all over again. The weight of their wedding night, undressing for a man she'd only heard scandalous rumors about, caved in over her.

Then there was the bed Ramsay made her bend over on. Fabric whispered between her hands, spilling between her fingers—just like that night. The tightness of the dress threatened to suffocate her. A laugh shrieked behind her just as she screamed as her maidenhood broke for him.

Hands burned her shoulders through the thick layers of fabric. This time, she would kill him! He wouldn't hurt her this time. The hands grasped her wrists, and she used her whole body to move away, but they found her again.

They weren't Ramsay's. They were smaller but strong and steady. They were so powerful that they froze her, slowly wiping the pain away. Everywhere on her body was cold except her tear-drenched face. Lifting her head, the room flashed back to where she'd been whisked.

Shivers splintered all senses except touch. She shuddered, struggling to find air to fill her chest. Tears stung her eyes, breaking and bending reality. Forever squeezed into mere seconds, but her vision cleared, revealing Tyrion looking down at her. He knelt before her, now moving closer. His bent knees padded her head as she lowered it, eyes darting as shame flooded her body.

"I've been so scared…"

Tyrion stroked her hair, saying nothing.

Sansa needed to anchor herself to him, fearing she'd fly back to the world she was a prisoner of at night. She patted the ground with her shuddering hand, finding the fabric at his thigh. Decorum had no place in her mind at this moment.

"I don't want to feel anymore…"

Tyrion adjusted and shifted out of her view. He withdrew from her briefly, but stayed close enough, so she could still clutch his pants. He gently ushered her from the floor, delicately guiding her to sit. He scooted back a few inches and slid his hand from her elbow to her fingertips.

Sansa crawled into him, settling against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. She clutched at his shirt possessively as he adjusted her pelt from her shoulders to drape over them like a blanket.

"You were right," Tyrion murmured, his voice vibrating across his chest. "We are equals." Sansa looked at him, meeting his soft eyes until he brushed her cheek and kissed her eyelids. He swallowed against her temple. "You feel as much as I do…if not a bit more."

Stretching his arm to his side, Sansa lifted her head, rising until she matched his eye level, her cheek on his arm and head comforted by his balled up pelt. Tears subsiding, she burned her hues in his, slowly lowering her hand down his chest until she reached his belt. Pulling his shirt up, she dipped her eyes to his lips but did not close the distance. Switching back to his easy stare, she dug her way up her shirt, feeling hair, scars, and hot flesh.

Tyrion gasped, quaking at her touch but never moving his eyes from hers. She settled her hand over his heart. Twitching his brows together, he swallowed and exhaled.

Sansa reached up to play with the ends of his beard. His lips folded inward, but worked his free hand beneath her pelt, slithering up until he placed his hand over hers. Sansa adjusted herself, earning her more proximity to him.

Resting her forehead to his, she lifted her nose over his, provoking his lip to curl. Searching his eyes, she pecked his lips a few times before pulling away, opting to settle her head against his and resting her eyes. He gasped, clutching her fingers under his shirt. His chest moved up and down at an increasing pace until he nudged her. Her eyelids fluttered open in sync with a small smile.

Tyrion's mouth hung open, head and hands quivering. "I love you, Sansa."

Sansa pressed her lips to his, lingering for a moment. Adjusting her fingers in his, she closed her eyes. A few seconds later, Winter settled at her back, licking the spot on the side of her face. With another whine, the direwolf rested his head on her shoulder.

Shortly after, sleep took her.

* * *

**[A/N] **We'll get back to our regularly scheduled plot after this chapter.

**Please review!**


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